Dark Blue
by Ky II
Summary: Nobody brought up Sherlock's mistake of rushing after the criminals without proper police backup. Nobody spoke a word of the fact that John might not make it. But most of all, nobody, not even Donovan, remarked upon the faint red rimming the great consulting detective's eyes when his only friend and partner was taken away.
1. The End

**Okay everybody, I hope you read this part, because it's actually sorta important (you don't have to, but I recommend it). This fic is my first Sherlock fic, and was partially inspired by the song Dark Blue by Jack's Mannequin. If you haven't heard the song, I strongly suggest you listen to it (it's a really good song) because then you'll get more of an idea how the storyline of this fic came to be. Here's the youtube link (you'll have to add the youtube address yourself because this site makes it SO FREAKING HARD TO INCLUDE A LINK):**

**/watch?v=oQOIJDE3RhA**

**And also, this fic is a Johnlock (mxm relationship). Nothing totally graphic or M rated (no smut/lemon/slash/whatever you call it) and if you were looking for that then sorry to disappoint. But I'm telling you up front here, so no angry readers later, okay~~ ;)**

**This story takes place somewhere outside the canonical BBC storyline. It's not AU, but there's not going to be a Moriarty or arch-nemesis sorta dude for Sherlock here. So I guess it sorta keeps with the mood between Sherlock and John before the Great Game, when Moriarty came and brought a helluva lot of tension into the mix and all that =_=. So. Sorta a casual little fic. But there's going to be plot, don't worry.****  
**

**And another thing (I'm gonna put this on the bottom as well for people who didn't read this beginning part) but THIS IS GOING TO BE A MULTI-CHAPTER FIC. So I know that the end of this chapter kinda sounds like an ending, and the name of this chapter is 'the end', but this is NOT A ONESHOT. There will be more. So don't just read this and think 'oh what a crappy ending' because THIS IS NOT THE END. **

**I just realized the irony. Here I am at the very beginning of the fic and the actual story hasn't even started yet and I'm already saying it's not the end -.- oh well. Just keep that in mind as you read. Hope you like it~~~~~~~~**

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are copyrighted property of BBC, Arthur Conan Doyle, and anybody else that's made anything about them before. I own nothing, and am making no money out of this publication.

* * *

_The End_

* * *

Sherlock blinked open his eyes. The ringing in his ears was deafening, drowning out all other sounds. He did a quick self-evaluation, checking all senses and vitals. Impaired audial reception - a consequence to the sonic shock of the explosion, but full recovery should be achieved in moments. Moderately blurred vision - most likely due to the impact on the back of his head when he'd been thrown backwards. He guessed he had a minor concussion, but it would be easily remedied. Heart rate steady, pulse strong. No open wounds.

Breathing - restricted?

It was then that Sherlock finally noticed the weight on top of his body, pressing down on his chest and making each breath he took harder - but not hard enough for it to be uncomfortable. A warm breath was tickling against his neck, the unmistakeable feel of a human form draped over his own. Sherlock blinked down, lifting a slightly shaky hand and tangling it into the other man's hair. The sticky wetness that coated the normally soft strands made his heart rate pick up just a tiny bit quicker. The feel of the man breathing against him was a small comfort when he drew his hand away, fingers painted red.

"_John,"_ Sherlock groaned, carefully flipping them over so John was lying on his back, Sherlock's hand supporting his neck so the wound on the back of his head wouldn't be pressed against the ground. Sherlock lay beside the smaller man, panic racing through his body when John's eyes refused to open. _Sentiment,_ he registered dully, but pushed the thought aside. His growing susceptibility to such illogical human emotions was an issue to be considered at a different time. Right now, John was his priority. John, who had evidently thrown himself in front of Sherlock when the bomb exploded and had covered him from most of the damage. John, who had used his own body to protect Sherlock. John, who now lay unmoving and barely breathing in front of him because Sherlock had just been too impatient, too self-assured, too damned _cocky _to wait for backup from Lestrade before he decided to go after the criminal on his own…

John, who might be dying right this moment because of _him_.

"John, open your eyes," Sherlock commanded roughly, voice scraping out of his throat. It usually worked - John always did whatever he asked, whatever he told him to. Sherlock had dragged the man all around London on wild chases after dangerous individuals in the whole duration of their acquaintance, and John had never once complained or refused. Hell, John had even brought him his phone from his own shirt pocket when he'd asked him to. Sherlock had grown used to John accepting his unreasonable demands, always treating them with a sort of forbearing patience that never ran out. And never, not once, had John ever failed to follow his orders.

Except now.

John's eyes were still shut, and Sherlock noticed with alarm that his breathing was growing shallower. The wound behind his head was oozing blood and a clear liquid, a dark pool forming around John's head that was nearly black in the oppressive darkness of three in the morning. The shadows around them were only slightly dispelled by the street lamps outside the ruins of the wrecked warehouse.

Sherlock quickly shifted so John's head was laying in his lap, the blood from John's wound soaking into his pants but at the moment, Sherlock couldn't have cared less. "John, please," he whispered, hands fluttering over the man's face and shoulders - everywhere he could reach - with a helplessness that felt utterly foreign. Sherlock knew how to examine the dead and test the living, but the wounded was John's specialty. Sherlock was no doctor, nor had he ever felt any inclination to be one before now. He had no idea how to fix John.

He wasn't even completely sure that John _could_ be fixed.

"_Please,_" he whispered again, hands finally settling on either side of John's head, feeling the warmth of the man's skin that was slowly draining away. "John, I'm begging you. Open your eyes."

A flutter of movement; so slight that normal people would've missed it completely. But nothing escaped Sherlock's eyes. "John?" he said, snatching his hands off of John's face, clenching them and unclenching in turns, quelling the fidget that threatened to emerge. "Can you hear me?"

John groaned, and Sherlock thought it was probably the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. Better than Bach or Paganini - better even than the huff Mycroft uttered when Sherlock managed to irritate him enough. Because that one sound meant that John was alive - definitively so. That John was still his John, still stubbornly hanging in there no matter how tough things got.

But most of all, that sound meant that John had not been broken.

That _Sherlock_ had not broken him.

Eyes blinked open hazily and Sherlock found himself gazing directly into a sea of dark blue. John's eyes had always been a fascinating color - dark and deep and at once both expressive yet puzzling. John's eyes took a moment to focus on him, his eyebrows drawn together in the effort.

John smiled softly when his vision sharpened, lifting his left hand up to Sherlock's face. Even though John was injured and most likely in pain, his hand was perfectly steady. "Sherlock," John said, his voice strained and barely above a whisper. Sherlock leaned closer, refusing to close his eyes or even blink, memorizing each detail of the moment. John smiled wider, his fingers smoothing over Sherlock's cheek and sending shivers down his entire body.

"I'm glad you're alright," John breathed, his gaze becoming unfocused once more as his eyes drew closed, the hand on Sherlock's face falling limp when John drifted back into unconsciousness. Sherlock caught the hand before it could drop, pressing John's fingers against his face and clutching at the thought - the hope - that John's eyes would open again. He breathed in the scent of John's skin, detergent and soap and a vague whiff of tea. But even that was taken when the metallic tang of blood filled his nose, reminding him again of the stream of life that was being slowly pumped out of John's body, one crimson drop at a time.

"John, please," Sherlock begged, his pride all but forgotten when John grew still. "You can't fall asleep. I won't allow it. An adult male body contains nearly twelve pints of blood. You've only lost about two or three pints so far. I won't allow you to fall asleep." Sherlock spat out his words as fast as he thought them, as if by speaking them out loud John would return to reason. "Two to three pints is nothing. Hardly twenty-five percent. You have to wake up, John. Aren't you going to blog about this whole mess? It's your big chance to declare to all your followers how utterly stupid I was - how you were right all along. You still have to do that. You also have to go out with me for dinner. Didn't you say you were thinking about Chinese? We still haven't eaten dinner yet. You can't sleep before you eat."

Sherlock knew his arguments were making less sense as time went on, but he couldn't stop his voice. He didn't even know who he was trying to convince anymore - John, whose hand was steadily growing colder in his grip, or himself. All he knew was that if he stopped talking it would be quiet. And if it was quiet, then he would be able to hear the faint sounds of John's breathing, and the painful gaps in between each laborious breath that grew longer and longer after each exhale. He clutched at John's hand, still pressed against his face, closing his eyes and focusing on that one feeling of skin-on-skin contact. If he just continued talking he wouldn't have to listen to John's pulse at his wrist, slowing down until the time between each beat was an eternity. He wouldn't have to hear the deathly silence in the destroyed warehouse - silence that should've been filled with John's grumbling about wanting tea and his dinner. He wouldn't have to hear the exact moment when John's breathing stopped, the instant when John's body gave up to the numerous injuries that it had sustained.

But most of all, if he only just continued talking, he might just be able to fool himself into believing that John would be okay. That John was still there with him.

That he wasn't alone.

When the sound of police sirens and ambulances finally drifted close half an hour later, Lestrade, Donovan, and the rest of the team from Scotland Yard stumbled into the collapsing warehouse to find Sherlock sitting in the middle of a pool of blood, John lying cold and still in his lap. Sherlock was holding John's hand up to his cheek, head bowed over his friend's immobile form, muttering statistics and denials and commands and requests in an endless stream under his breath. Sherlock refused to let go of John's hand even when the emergency medical squad came in, and Lestrade and Anderson had to restrain the man by force when John was put on a stretcher and lifted into the ambulance. Nobody brought up Sherlock's mistake of rushing after the criminals without proper police backup. Nobody spoke a word of the fact that John might not make it.

But most of all, nobody, not even Donovan, remarked upon the faint red rimming the great consulting detective's eyes when his only friend and partner was taken away.

* * *

**Author's Note: THIS IS NOT THE END**

**I said so at the beginning as well, but this is for people who skipped over that bit. But yes, again, this is going to be a multi-chapter fic and there's going to be a whole lot more going on than just this one scene. So keep reading, I'll come up with updates as fast as I can (which is a debatable point at the moment) but yeah. Hope you people liked it so far! :P**


	2. The Beginning

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are copyrighted property of BBC, Arthur Conan Doyle, and anybody else that's made anything about them before. I own nothing, and am making no money out of this publication.

* * *

_The Beginning_

* * *

_One week earlier._

Sherlock stood stiffly beside Lestrade, forced to bear with the utterly _boring_ conversation the Head of Lestrade's division in Scotland Yard - a fat, paunchy man with a thick mustache that obviously had had too much to drink - was aiming at him. He'd been dragged away from John after their entrance, and the other man was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock's mind wandered back to the words that were spilling out of the fat man's mouth, not really interested but forced to let the sound buzz in his ears, occasionally picking up some odd word here or there.

It was a discussion on football. _Football. _Sherlock had never seen the appeal in watching a group of sweaty men run around a grass covered area kicking a ball in an endless back and forth, though, admittedly, both Lestrade and the Head seemed to be enthusiastically engaged. Sherlock debated whether he should just turn around and walk out of this meeting-party thing that he was attending, despite the fact that he'd only just arrived five minutes ago.

It had all started a week previous when Lestrade had mentioned to him and John about some annual gala held by Scotland Yard over a dead body at Bart's morgue. He'd hardly been listening, but from what he could gather by looking around him it was the sort of exclusive event that only high-ranking members of the London police force were invited to. Lestrade had somehow conveyed the message to John that he would like for them both to attend.

Sherlock had been against it, obviously. He never attended these sorts of events. These glittering, arrogant affairs were all so utterly _dull._

But Lestrade had managed to do a very good job of convincing John that his job depended upon their appearance. Which meant that Lestrade's boss had probably decided to finally take a look at these 'outside investigators' that Lestrade was always getting help from. And since John was, well, _John,_ he wasn't going to refuse the invitation if Lestrade's very career depended on it, no matter how much Sherlock knew John hated these events as well - almost as much as himself, if truth be told.

So here they were. Not that Sherlock really cared if Lestrade kept his job or not, mind you. But John had bribed him and threatened him and tried convincing him in turns for the entire week leading up to the event, and Sherlock had finally folded. Not because he couldn't refute John's arguments, obviously, since all too many of them were illogically based and dependent upon arguable notions like _sentiment_. But he'd thought that it might - _might -_ prove to be an interesting experience.

How utterly _wrong_ he was.

Not even watching the stupidity and pretentiousness of the people around him brought any respite from the sheer _boredom_ of the entire situation. It was the typical stuffy, boorish sort of thing that Mycroft was always trying to drag him to - all attempts which he'd rather ungraciously turned down. Sherlock stood woodenly, staring into space, and it wasn't until on the third try that the question the Head was directing at him finally got through to his previously preoccupied brain.

"Sherlock?"

Lestrade nudged him - or perhaps '_nudge'_ wasn't the right word, it was more like a jab of elbow in his ribs - and he blinked his attention back on the fat man. He'd already deleted the man's name, since he'd decided it was useless information almost as soon as he'd heard it.

"What?" he asked, not quite as politely as he knew these types of situations demanded. But then again, when had he ever been one to follow society's bounds? Lestrade gave him a glare, which Sherlock magnanimously chose to overlook.

The Head smiled condescendingly, as if he was dealing with a troublesome child. Sherlock narrowed his eyes immediately - if this preposterous fat man thought himself actually _superior_, Sherlock was going to teach him a lesson or two on the facts of life. "I was asking, Mr. Holmes, of what your opinions on football might be."

"A useless pastime," Sherlock said immediately, not even caring that Lestrade's glare had become a not-so-subtle scowl. "It is a simple game of kicking a ball that requires no real complexities of thought when in practice."

The fat man frowned and licked his lips. One could plainly see he was setting himself up for a long, drawn out debate. "Football is a game of subtle strategic plays and predicting the opponent's moves," he began, his voice taking on a distinctly droning effect.

Sherlock interrupted before his intelligence could be dragged down by the sheer _imbecilic _qualityof this man.

"Coaches and extreme fans are constantly deluding themselves that football is a game of foresight and difficult formulations of player setup," he drawled, "But in reality it is just a group of individuals voluntarily expending unnecessarily large amounts of energy in a form of space-invasion maneuver which has the sole purpose of launching the aforementioned ball through a specified area of the opponents' team." Sherlock snorted disdainfully, marveling at how such a primitive form of activity could be a worldwide industry. "In fact, if these football players truly wanted to do something actually _worthwhile_ with their time, they could just as easily join the military. At least then they'd be contributing to something _useful,_ while expending all the energy that they seem to have and engaging in _real_ strategic and tactical situations.

He stared steadily at the Head after his monologue, spoken in rapid-fire words at the speed of thought. The man blinked at him, not understanding a word he'd just uttered but coloring when he realized their implication.

"What-" he began angrily, flushed face becoming impossibly redder. The champagne flute he held in his hand tilted precariously as the man's whole body seemed to shake with indignation, and Sherlock idly predicted the parabola of it's path as gravity pulled the liquid to the floor. He huffed in satisfaction when his predictions placed the stream of spilled champagne right onto the fat man's no-doubt expensive loafers.

"I think Sherlock here's had a little too much to drink - he doesn't know what he's saying," Lestrade said hastily, doing quick damage control before the situation got out of hand. With a swipe of his arm Lestrade managed to right the tipping flute before its bubbly contents could spill in reality, making Sherlock frown when his predictions were wasted.

"You told me that this man was a _genius,_" the fat man accused at Lestrade, spittle forming on his bottom lip as he worked himself up into a fury. "He's just a no-good piece of _vermin!_ Doesn't like football, so make them into an _army?_ Preposterous!"

The Head had apparently not understood what Sherlock had said. He'd never suggested making the football players into their own separate army - that in itself would be a wholly unnecessary and costly undertaking. Sherlock opened his mouth to correct the man - and add a few patronizing insults on top - but the warning in Lestrade's eyes as he looked over his shoulder made him pause instead. It wasn't _his_ fault that the fat man was too dim to understand him properly. In fact, he'd done them all a favor and outlined a perfectly reasonable alternative for the numerous athletes who had decided to pursue a career in sport.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, probably guessing that his thoughts were far from repenting. The detective inspector put his hand on his boss' shoulder, none-too-gently pushing the man away towards more sociable crowds. Sherlock was left standing alone - those who had witnessed the Head's little spat didn't want anything to do with him, and he hadn't very many acquaintances in the ranks of Scotland Yard anyways. Mainly only Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, and Dimmock. Dimmock was on holiday, Lestrade had just left, and Sherlock didn't feel the slightest inclination to converse with Donovan or Anderson on the best of days. It stood to reason that he didn't want to talk to them _now._

So he stood in the middle of the crowded room, silently observing the multitude of people that surrounded him, every one of which were doing their utmost to completely ignore his presence.

_This is boring._

* * *

**Author's Note: Short chapters, yes, I know, but I thought this was a pretty good place to cut it off. So yeah, like I said in the previous chapter, THAT WAS NOT THE END. This is the beginning (which you can probably tell by the chapter names) and there's going to be a whole lot more :D**

**Yep. Hope you guys liked it so far, and I'll keep updating as fast as I can. Thanks~~~~~ 3**


	3. Candlelight Dinner

**Disclaimer: **Nothing is mine. No characters, no setting, nothing. Only the ideas behind the story, which, admittedly, nobody else would want anyways. Non-profit work, people. Don't get me arrested.

* * *

_Candlelight Dinner_

* * *

Two hours. Two hours that Sherlock had been standing alone on the edge of the room, trying in vain to amuse himself. He'd deduced everything and anything from all the people in the room already - the woman with the black beret was juggling two simultaneous affairs as well as a much older husband without any of the three men being aware, and the fresh young officer that was being introduced around the room was involved in substance abuse and currently on a heroin high. He'd estimated the cost of the whole event, what cars each person would have arrived in, and what their positions were supposed to be in Scotland Yard. The woman with the black beret, for example, was the secretary of the Head of the Department of Central Operations, and the young officer was a promising cadet in the Police Air Support Unit. He'd even managed to figure out the exact brands of the dresses, suits, shoes, and accessories of anybody that stood within a ten meter radius of his current position.

Needless to say, Sherlock was feeling ready to start shooting at the walls, room full of Scotland Yard or not.

"You seem to be having fun."

Sherlock turned, eyes meeting twin pools of dark blue so deep that they were nearly black in the soft lighting. His brain kicked into overdrive, noticing all the little details of John's face that had changed since they'd been separated upon entering the gala.

"And you as well," he deadpanned, one eyebrow arching as John practically _oozed_ satisfaction.

A hint of pink colored John's cheeks. "It's always nice to get around meeting new people," he said vaguely, a goofy smile on his face that Sherlock thought definitely should _not_ be there.

"New people?" he repeated sarcastically.

John blinked back to reality, the smile sliding off his face. "Yep," he nodded, shifting his eyes away. "New acquaintances in the police force and all that, don't you think?"

Sherlock paused, eyes flicking over John. Hint of a blush - embarrassment. Fidgeting - lies. That, added to the rather _noticeable_ scent of women's perfume hanging around John's person could only mean one thing. Sherlock felt his lips drawing down in a scowl.

"Which one?" he asked, eyes lifting from John's face to scan about the room, searching for a figure that he hadn't already seen in the past two hours.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock turned back to John, fixing him with the best piercing look he could summon up - which, considering his rather large propensity for intense staring, was something to be reckoned with. Most people recoiled when he fixed them with a look like that - it was never a good thing to have all of Sherlock Holmes' attention fixed on a single, _live_ human being, after all. It usually meant he was about to deduce your deepest secrets or force you into a confession.

Or both.

But John didn't even flinch. Sherlock's scowl deepened.

"Which _woman,_ John," he repeated impatiently. "Which one is it that you've been with for the past two hours?"

"How did you- Oh, never mind," John rolled his eyes, eyes roving over the crowd and stopping somewhere near the middle. Sherlock followed his gaze.

"That one there," John said, nodding in the general direction. "The one with the black dress."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, gaze honing in on the young woman wearing an elegant cocktail dress chatting with several other women her age. Blonde, petite, with light makeup and an unassuming smile. Exactly John's preferred type.

_I dislike her._

"You realize she's quite introverted and absolutely _dull,"_ Sherlock said, taking in all the subtle hints on the woman's body and clothing. "She's an officer on active force, but that's about it. She likes taking long walks in the evenings and sleeping in on weekends. She reads a lot, mostly fiction and romance. Enjoys watching telly while lying down on the sofa. Completely boring. The only thing she _does_ actually seem to take initiative in is trying out different foods, but even that can become tiresome after a while."

John was frowning when he turned back. "Don't deduce her," he said, a tinge sharper than his normal annoyed. "Besides, everything you've said so far just make me like her even more. I'd enjoy a relaxing weekend now and again sleeping in and reading and taking a long walk in the evening after some exotic dinner."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "_We_ can do that too," he argued.

John's frown turned into an unimpressed stare. "When have we _ever_ done that?" he asked. "If we aren't off on some absurd chase after a criminal at three o'clock in the morning, we're down at Bart's looking at a dead body in the afternoon. I don't know about you, but that's pretty far from _relaxing_ by my standards."

"But we _could,"_ he insisted.

"Yes, we _could,"_ John admitted with a nod. "But we _won't,_ because you'll be much too bored by noontime to even contemplate staying inside the rest of the afternoon."

Sherlock looked away, not wanting to continue the argument when John was being so illogical. He _could_ stay in for a day. It would be dull, yes, but he _could._

"Name?"

"Jane," John muttered, not even having to ask what name Sherlock meant. "Jane Caraway."

Sherlock locked eyes with this _Jane Caraway_ from across the room. He stared at her, taking in her surprise and confusion, and she was the first to look away.

_Utterly ordinary._ Sherlock couldn't understand why John would prefer _that_ sort of woman over…

Over what?

Sherlock shook his head, his thoughts spiking out in all different directions. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic in the crowded room, the clink of glasses and hum of chatter scraping against his consciousness. Dropping a hand to John's lower back he attempted to steer them in the direction of the doors.

"We're leaving," he said abruptly.

"Why?" John asked, looking up at him in surprise. "The event's not due to end for another-"

"I don't care."

"Shouldn't we tell Lestrade that-"

"He'll figure it out."

Seeing that Sherlock wasn't about to spontaneously change his mind, John reluctantly allowed himself to be pushed and prodded to the open doors of the gallery, exiting the fancy building after getting their jackets and stepping out into a cool London April evening. Sherlock's mood immediately improved once they got onto the bustling street, the chilly breeze blowing into their faces clearing his mind of all the useless clutter. They managed to exit just in time to witness the blazing sunset, tinging the usually slate gray skies a fiery crimson.

"Greg's not going to be very happy we left halfway through," John said, glancing back behind them at the large doors of the hotel hosting the event.

"I'm sure his boss won't mind overly much," Sherlock dismissed. "He didn't seem to be very impressed with me anyhow. I appeared to have insulted his favorite sport."

John looked at him with raised eyebrows. "And how did you manage to do that?" he asked incredulously.

Sherlock shrugged. "I might have suggested football players would be better employed in the army, and he might have misunderstood my meaning to be that all football players should be converted into their own private military force."

John snorted, amusement in dark blue eyes that looked a whole lot more blue now that they were standing under the cloudy London sky. Sherlock looked at him, unable to stop his own lips from tugging up into a smirk.

Soon they were laughing. Loudly and catching the stares of people they passed, they strolled together down the street, feet carrying them who knows where. Neither of them much cared where they ended up - the London cabs were more than enough to bring them back home. It was getting dark - nearly nine in the evening, Sherlock suspected - when they passed a nice looking Italian place squished between a barber shop and a row of flats.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked, smiling down as John studied the menu that was displayed in the front window of the restaurant.

"Starving," John laughed.

"Good," Sherlock said, leading the way into the tiny place. Though small, it was reasonably full, business going well for so late in the evening. "Table for two," Sherlock said to the small Italian girl manning the front door.

She led them to a booth tucked away near the back, handing out menus. Sherlock frowned, preferring window seats, but they were already occupied. He slid in across from John, noting that the establishment was clean and cozy, with comfortable leather cushions.

"Could I get you two any drinks?" the girl asked with a giggle.

"Earl Grey tea, please," John said, looking at Sherlock.

"Coffee. Two sugars."

The girl took their orders with a nod and a smile, not even questioning the choice of drinks at nine in the evening. "Would you like me to bring some flowers for your table?" she added politely. "To create a better mood and all that, you know."

Sherlock stared at her silently, making her cheeks redden and giggle nervously. John's mouth had fallen open, but he apparently recovered from his momentary shock in time to shake his head vigorously at her. "No - I mean, you've got it wrong," he said hastily, gesturing to Sherlock and back at himself. "He's not my date."

The girl blinked, looking back and forth between them. "You mean you're not-"

"Neither of us are gay," John said flatly. "We're colleagues."

"Friends," Sherlock interjected, observing the menu.

John turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "Friends," he amended.

The girl looked stunned, dawning horror on her pretty features. "Oh my gosh, I'm _so _sorry," she said, waving her hands at them. "I thought for sure that - I mean, you two just looked - I'll get your drinks for you right away, sirs." Her hasty departure was enough to draw the attention of some other of the restaurant patrons, but nobody thought too much into it.

John turned back to his own menu with a huff. "Why is it that every time I'm in a restaurant with you they think we're _gay?"_ he grumbled under his breath, clearly exasperated.

Sherlock eyed him over the top of his menu. "Perhaps you just have that natural air of queerness about you," he suggested bluntly.

John glared at him. "Then wouldn't _you_ be the same?" he demanded.

"Not at all," Sherlock said calmly, "Seeing as people always assume that _you _are _my_ date."

John flicked a packet of sugar at him for his efforts. "Well they assume _wrong,_" John said stubbornly. "Even if I _were_ gay - only hypothetically speaking, of course - there's no way I'd be _your_ date. You'd sooner be _mine."_

A smirk twitched at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Are you saying you're more man than me, John?" he challenged subtly.

John answered with his same reckless smile - the one he sometimes wore when they were racing across the busy London streets, exhilarated by the chase of a particularly nasty criminal. It was the face John wore when he saw the battlefield, Sherlock knew.

"Much more," John replied, answering the challenge.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. This - _this - _was the very reason why he felt himself inexorably, inexplicably drawn to this man that was sitting across the booth from him. This refusal to back down, even daring to call Sherlock on his challenge - John was the only one that could make Sherlock so interested in something that didn't involve a good triple murder. The only one that Sherlock thought _interesting - _a man made of vivid, shimmering blue in a world of monotonous grays and whites and browns.

The girl came back with their drinks, interrupting their silent staring. She looked between both of them and seemed like she couldn't help herself.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like those flowers?" she tried again, setting their drinks in front of them. "Or even a candle? Dinner over a candle is always nice."

John turned to her this time, a spark of recklessness in his eyes. "Why not, dear," he said gallantly. "As a matter of fact, why don't you bring them both? The flowers _and_ the candle. Special evening tonight." Sherlock noticed the bill John slid into the waitress's pocket, making her blush and rush away, eager to bring their items.

Sherlock watched as John turned back to him, looking smug. "You think you've won," he stated.

"Yes, I have," John answered with a smirk.

"What if I tell you that by requesting the flowers and candles, you have further established your own queerness, while I have maintained my initial impression?"

"Ah," John said, blue eyes open and confiding but hiding concealed mirth at the same time. "That's where you're wrong, Sherlock. See, you may know _facts,_ and if you only look at the facts I may certainly be perceived as less manly than you. But _I _know _people._"

"I don't see how _people_ can disregard the evidence of the facts they are presented with," Sherlock said calmly.

John just leaned back in his booth, crossing his arms and lips lifted in a smile that said '_you'll see'_ as plainly as if he'd said it out loud.

The girl returned, putting a small vase of fragrant flowers and a nice, small candle on the table between them. "There you go - now are you ready to order?" she asked, whipping out her pencil and pad.

"Of course, dear," John replied, opening his menu. "But before we do that, my boyfriend and I were just having a little bet between us."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John's words, ignoring the sudden thump in his chest as just an anomaly in his bodily functions. It was strange, how that one simple word made him react so much. He was a scientist - he could measure the exact frequency of John's voice if he wished - but then how could that particular pitch send shivers all the way down his spine?

The girl giggled at John's blatant statement, looking at them both. "Yes?"

"In your opinion, which one of us is the female in this relationship?" John asked, gesturing between Sherlock and himself. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John's frankness, but decided he'd see how this little experiment turned out.

The girl looked at them both critically, lips pursed and cheeks pink. "Well, no offense but-"

"Don't worry about offending either of us," John said lightly. "We just want your opinion."

"Well, I think _he's_ the female - maybe?" she said, sneaking a peak at Sherlock.

And the triumphant grin John directed at him was enough to make him set is menu to the side and fix the girl with his signature stare. She blinked and fidgeted, staring at a spot somewhere on the table.

"And what makes you say that?" Sherlock asked monotonously, eyes narrowed. It was illogical - John had exhibited the most queerness out of both of them thus far, so why would the girl think _he_ was the woman?

The girl shrugged, twisting her paper and pencil in her hands. "If I'm wrong then I'm sorry-"

"I don't care if you're right or wrong, I just want to know why," Sherlock interrupted coldly.

The girl visibly quailed. John set a hand on her elbow, smiling up at her kindly. "Don't mind him," John said reassuringly. "He's just got his boxers in a twist since he lost the bet."

The girl nodded. "Um, well, because you-" this was said to John, "wanted the flowers and the candle, and tipped me, and seemed more… I don't know - _confident_, maybe? While he-" meaning Sherlock, "just sort of looked at the menu. And when you-" John, "said you two were colleagues, he immediately corrected it to friends. That sorta made me think he was more interested in this relationship, which is more of a woman-ish thing to do…?"

John leaned back, smile still fixed on his face as he stared at Sherlock. "Excellent answer, dear," he said appreciatively to the girl, who blushed. "Now, I think I would like to get the four cheese lasagna, if you don't mind?"

"Of course," she nodded, writing it down on her now crumpled pad of paper. "And you, sir?" she asked, looking expectantly at Sherlock.

"More coffee," Sherlock replied coldly, gesturing to his already empty coffee cup. The girl stared - but decided she was in no position to press the matter and nodded once, swiftly moving back to the kitchens.

John looked at him disapprovingly. "You could've been a bit nicer to her, she didn't do anything wrong," he said reproachfully.

"Yes, she did," Sherlock muttered. "She ignored all available facts and drew her own illogical conclusions based on evidence that all suggested at the exact opposite."

"Ah." John's expression cleared, his frown replaced by one of obvious amusement. "You're upset that you lost the bet. _Now_ we're getting somewhere."

Sherlock opened his mouth to deny it - but at that exact moment the girl returned, filling his coffee mug back up to the brim and saying John's lasagna would just take a few more moments. John nodded and she retreated, leaving them in relative privacy once more.

"I am _not_ upset that I lost the bet," Sherlock denied, picking up their conversation from where they'd left off. "I just find it unreasonable and highly stupid that she'd misinterpreted both of our actions-"

"I told you already, Sherlock," John said with a smirk. "Facts and observation aren't always solid. Sometimes, you just have to go with whatever seems right."

"Instinct," Sherlock scoffed.

"Yes, instinct," John answered reasonably, smiling at the girl when she brought him his lasagna and promptly left them alone. "Gut feeling. Don't you ever get that when you're chasing after all these criminals? Don't you just have this _feeling_ that they're in some particular place, or planning to do some particular thing, without having any definitive evidence to back it up?"

"No," Sherlock said bluntly.

John rolled his eyes. "Well then you're a bloody machine," he snorted, turning to his food and taking a deep bite, groaning in pleasure at the taste. "_This,_" John said to him, pointing at it with his fork, "_this_ is good."

Sherlock watched John take another bite, lips shiny from oil and reddened from pressing against his fork. He unconsciously licked his lips, finding himself wondering if the lasagna was really so good as to warrant such… provocative manners.

"Want some?" John asked, seeing him staring. Sherlock blinked at the fork offered to him - John's fork.

"What?"

"Lasagna," John said with a roll of his eyes. "You need to eat more, dammit. A man can't survive on coffee and nicotine alone, which is all I've seen you take in so far."

Sherlock stared at the fork, then the lasagna. "Digesting slows down my-"

"Brain functions, I know," John interrupted. "But not eating proper food and living off of caffeine and nicotine patches is a one-way road to making your brain functions stop forever. So eat some," he said briskly, putting the fork into his hand. "Come on, doctor's orders."

His tone made it clear he was joking, but his insistence showed he wasn't about to take no for an answer. Sherlock took the fork and cut himself a piece of lasagna, staring at the red and white lump. Tomato sauce. Minced beef. Cheese - mozzarella, cheddar, provolone, and parmesan. He could name all the ingredients by sight and smell alone. He put it in his mouth, expecting the worst.

It was good - Sherlock had to give him that. The cheese melted in his mouth and combined nicely with the meat sauce as he chewed, pleasantly warm on his tongue. John just looked at him with a small smirk, as if knowing he was enjoying it but would never say so out loud.

He took another bite just because he wanted to. Between them both they cleared the lasagna within minutes, plate scraped clean. Sherlock had never known that a meal could taste so good. Growing up, the meals back at the Manor with Mummy made by five-star chefs had never been as fulfilling, nor as fun as when John battled him for the last slice.

Perhaps he should eat more often.

On their way out after paying the bill the girl stopped them at the door. "Um, sorry, but about your question from before," she said hesitantly, blushing as she directed her words to John. "But, well, when you two first came in I thought _you_ were the woman, perhaps, because he-" meaning Sherlock, "ordered the table and you were shorter. I just thought I should tell you that."

John's mouth fell open, his expression too utterly astounded for speech. Sherlock felt himself grinning widely, slipping a twenty into the waitress's pocket. "Wonderful, darling," he whispered under his breath to her, chuckling at the indignant spluttering now coming out of John's mouth. "Perfectly astute observations."

He dragged John out of the tiny restaurant before the man could regain control of his tongue, laughing out loud when they stepped outside into the chilly night air.

"I am not _short!"_ John said immediately, calling over his shoulder as the door swung closed behind them. Sherlock snorted, burrowing his chin deeper into his scarf. It may have been April already, but London weather had a nasty habit of lingering chill in the evenings.

John swiveled to glare at him, completely cross. "I am _not!"_ he insisted. "_You're _just bloody tall."

"That may be so, but it still means I appear to be the man and you the woman in our relationship to others at first glance," Sherlock reminded teasingly.

"Hypothetical relationship," John quipped.

"Hypothetical relationship," Sherlock corrected himself. "But hypothetical or not, _I_ appear to have won this little bet of ours in the end."

"You have _not. _Remember, she said _you_ were the woman _first._"

"And yet she has admitted that at first glance the woman was _you."_

John scowled. "Fine, how about this? It's a tie. Nobody wins. We're both men. We're not even _gay_ for God's sakes, why are we arguing about this?"

Sherlock looked at John from the corner of his eye. "Because I called you a queer," he said.

"And I called _you_ a woman," John grumbled.

They looked at each other again and both chuckled, the soft sounds soon becoming full-blown laughter. The entire situation was completely ludicrous - the argument, the betting, the name-calling, everything. They were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and nothing could change that fact. They were together, laughing, walking down a cold London street, and that was all that mattered.

Above, the stars burned with cold impassivity, silent guardians to the machinations of fate.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yes, long chapter this time. The chapter lengths are gonna be pretty varied, actually - there're just so many places where it cuts off at a good point and stuff. Yeah. Um, hope you like the story so far? I'm gonna try to update regularly, but honestly, no promises here :D Sherlock and John are gonna get into some addicting stuff from now on (yes, that is foreshadowing. I am not just praising my own work) so keep reading. Please review, too! I'd love the feedback - both positive and negative. It's nice to know what other people think~~ and if you have anything I could improve don't hesitate to tell me.

Thanks!


	4. Busted

**Disclaimer:** Nothing is mine, blah blah blah. Enjoy!

* * *

_Busted_

* * *

"Sherlock dear, what have you done _this _time?"

It was three days after the whole Scotland Yard gala business - three days which he had spent mainly in the labs at Bart's, running tests on a new theory he'd been building. John had occasionally popped into his usual lab, bringing with him some leftover takeout now and again to make sure Sherlock actually ate. But at those words, Sherlock took one look at Mrs. Hudson's reproaching expression and raced up the stairs, bursting into his and John's shared flat just in time to have a couch cushion thrown into his face. Slapping the offending article aside with annoyance, Sherlock looked at the familiar flat of 221B Baker Street.

It was a mess.

The place was crawling with people - Scotland Yard, Sherlock recognized by their uniforms. His irritation spiked, making him shove through the sea of milling officers, finding Lestrade right where he'd expected - sitting calmly in John's armchair in the midst of the bustling people, observing the goings-on with sharp eyes.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, jerking his gloves off his fingers and throwing them aside. The whole place was being turned inside out anyways, so he doubted two gloves on the floor would irritate John overly much. "You can't just break into my flat."

A grunt from the kitchen had him turning around, seeing a struggling John being pinned down on the kitchen table by two officers, hands cuffed behind him. Sherlock felt a momentary rush of pride to see that even though John was restrained and outnumbered, he was still managing to give the two officers quite a bit of trouble.

"And you can't just randomly decide to cuff and manhandle my flatmate either," he added to Lestrade.

"I didn't _break into_ your flat," Lestrade scoffed.

"Then what do you call this, then?" Sherlock asked, opening his arms and encompassing the entire situation, eyebrows raised.

Lestrade pursed his lips. "_This,"_ he said, looking around at the activity, "is a drugs bust."

Sherlock felt his blood run cold.

"Seriously? This guy, a _junkie?"_ he heard John exclaim incredulously from the kitchen behind him. "Have you _met_ him?"

Sherlock spun around neatly on his heels and went to John, putting his mouth very close to the other man's ear, completely ignoring the officer that tried to pull him away. "John-"

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn't find anything you could even call _recreational,"_ John continued, yelling to be heard by Lestrade in the living room.

As much as Sherlock was flattered by John's confidence in him, now was definitely not the time. Not when the little bundle that he'd hidden under the sink was so close, officers standing _right there…_ "John, you probably want to shut up now," he muttered into the man's ear, forcing as much urgency as he could into his tone.

"Yeah, but come _on,"_ John said, eyes shifting to him since John couldn't move his head, pinned to the table as he was. Sherlock stared grimly back.

"No."

"What?"

"_You?"_ John asked disbelievingly.

"Shut up," Sherlock muttered. "It's not-"

A scream from the other side of the kitchen had Sherlock jerking back upright to see Donovan grimacing in disgust, hands held out at arm's length in front of her, holding -

Sherlock sighed. So they'd found the head.

"Is this _real?"_ Donovan managed to choke out, the adult male head dangling precariously by the hair as she gripped it in her hands.

"Put that back!" Sherlock ordered, rounding the table in a few swift steps and grabbing his head from her, stuffing it back into the fridge where it belonged. Donovan was still holding her hands away from her body, no doubt searching for something to wipe them on.

"Is this even _legal?"_ she muttered disgustedly, settling on some nearby officer's uniform jacket for her hand towel. Sherlock almost pitied the man.

"It's an experiment," he answered shortly. "Now stop this pretend drugs bust and get out of here!"

"It stops being pretend if they find anything," Lestrade said, coming into the kitchen and settling on a seat at the kitchen table. "Sorry about this, John, but we've got to be thorough."

"Not if there's nothing to _find,"_ John muttered angrily, jerking violently and almost managing to throw his two guards off, before a third joined in the effort and slammed him back down onto the table.

"Are you sure about that?" Lestrade asked calmly. For a single second, all eyes in the room were fixed on Sherlock.

"I am _clean!"_ he declared loudly.

"Is your flat?" Lestrade asked, propping his chin up on his hand. "All of it?"

"I don't even smoke," Sherlock muttered angrily. "This is ridiculous."

"Then what, may I ask, is this?"

They all turned at the sound of Anderson's weaseling voice, Sherlock freezing when he saw the little packet the man was waving between his fingers. The cabinet door under the sink was open, Anderson looking sickeningly smug as he opened the packet to reveal four plastic wrapped squares of white powder inside.

He knew how incriminating this looked, and he also knew with utter certainty that these people would surely jump to conclusions.

Nobody was on his side.

John was the first to break the tense silence. "Really?" he snorted, head craned in what had to be an uncomfortable position so he could see the packet Anderson held from his position on the table. "_Really?_ That's probably just some Epsom salt the previous owners in the flat left behind or something." John twisted around, trying to look at the people in the kitchen. "You don't honestly believe it's _ours?"_ he said incredulously. "Didn't you all hear Sherlock? We're _clean!"_

Well, _one _person was on his side. But as much as Sherlock appreciated John standing up for him, he realized nobody was going to listen, not when they'd all been waiting for this perfect chance to prove once and for all that he was the psychopath that they all thought he was.

"_You_ may be, John, but Sherlock certainly isn't," Lestrade said grimly, opening one of the small packets of powder and gathering some on the tip of his finger, putting it in his mouth before he promptly spat it out. "Heroin," he muttered. "I'd know the difference between that and Epsom salt any day."

"What'cha have to say for yourself, freak?" Donovan asked, crossing her arms and leaning against the fridge door. "Still gonna plead innocent?"

"I realize how this looks-"

"You damn well _should_ realize how this looks!" Lestrade exploded, jerking an accusing finger in his direction. "It just turns out that the genius _consulting detective_ that I've been depending on for five years is actually a _heroin addict._ Do you realize we have to verify the credibility of all your supposedly 'ingenious' deductions now? That's _five years_ of completed cases, all having to be double checked and cross referenced because _somebody_ turned out to be a bloody _criminal."_

_"_Not that anybody's really surprised at the turnout," Donovan added. "We all knew you were going to slip up sometime."

"If you'd just let me _explain-"_

"We have traffic cameras that caught you on tape, getting that little packet from some stranger on the side of the street," Donovan cut over him. "That's red-handed evidence, freak. Enough to get you sentenced in court."

"But particular circumstances demanded that I-"

"Whatever explaining you want to do, you can do it at the station," Lestrade proclaimed with an air of finality. Sherlock found himself grabbed by the shoulders, cold metal clicking shut over his wrists as he was shoved down onto the table beside John. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, you are both hereby arrested on charges of possession of drugs, substance abuse, drug trafficking and alleged involvement in criminal activities." Lestrade continued to recite their rights and consequences of resistance while Sherlock was pinned nearly nose-to-nose with his partner in crime.

The other man was looking at him, but Sherlock saw none of the condemnation that he'd expected. Instead, there were only questions floating around in those dark blue eyes, questions and curiosity and a hint of irritation.

Sherlock almost could've laughed. John still believed in him - there wasn't a hint of suspicion in those eyes. John still believed him - and even if the rest of the world condemned him, he would know that John hadn't given up.

That John was still his friend.

That everything would be alright.

He looked up in time to see Lestrade nod sharply at the guards holding him and John immobile, the rest of the officers clearing out of the flat now that they've got what they came for. Sherlock looked at the mess they'd made of everything, couch overturned, books scattered everywhere - at least his head was still safely in the fridge. But he'd have to redo the experiment now, since Donovan had stupidly taken the head _out_ of the fridge. That was an irreproachable error in his controlled variables - one that he resolved to fix immediately once they got back to the flat.

Lestrade nodded again once all the other officers had gone out, signaling to their guards that it was time.

"Let's take them in."

* * *

**Author's Note:** ANOTHER CHAPTER! Although this one's shorter than the last one... oh well -.-

But the main thing I'd like to say here is THANK YOU TO Prince0904 FOR REVIEWING! (first person to review too, so here's a cookie~ 3) Although I wasn't able to reply to your review via PM... so I'll do it here :P Thanks sooooo much for liking this story! I was wondering if it was any good. I'm glad you like the storyline so far! Although Sherlock and John are going to get into some trouble with Lestrade now. Anyways, I hope you keep reading! Feedback is always nice :3

Chapter updates will be once every two weeks or so (I hope...?). My updates aren't exactly famed for their regularity...


	5. The Truth

**Disclaimer: **You know, I _wish_ I owned Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They're now officially two of my favorite characters of all time. But unfortunately, just wishing doesn't get me anywhere in life TT_TT So again, this is a non-profit work of self-published fiction. All characters and settings belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, and any other people that decided to make official releases of Sherlock and John stories.

* * *

_The Truth_

* * *

Sherlock sat on the edge of the uncomfortable cot, resisting the urge to stand up and pace. John was across the tiny cell from him, on the ground with his back against the sterile white tiled wall. They'd been left in the holding cells of the station directly upon arrival - after some medic had jabbed some needles full of their blood, that is - and though Sherlock knew it was a move to make them as nervous as possible, it was nonetheless driving him _crazy. _

_"_So?" John finally said after the silence had stretched for over an hour.

Sherlock glanced at the other man, noting the tired shadows around the man's eyes and messy hair. "You went out last night," he stated, ignoring John's question.

"Yes I did. Now are you going to tell me why we're here or not?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, vision flickering over John's form. Normal beige pullover, comfortable pants, soft indoor shoes. "You woke up late this morning."

John started looking faintly annoyed. "Yes. Are you going to answer me or am I just talking to myself?"

"Since we've already established you were out last night and that you woke up late this morning, I find it only reasonable to assume that you were out quite late. Around… two in the morning, I presume?"

"And I'm just talking to myself. Great," John muttered, playing with the handcuffs still attached around his wrists. The jingling was the only sound in the cell for a while.

"I'm not on those drugs," Sherlock finally said, if only to escape from the thoughts bouncing around restlessly inside his head.

"I know."

"I used to be on drugs, though."

"I'd guessed as much, considering your reaction when you first found out Greg was there for a drugs bust."

Sherlock frowned, staring at John, who was looking fixedly at the links on his handcuffs as if they were the most fascinating things in the world. "If you already guessed that, how come you don't think I'm on the drugs _now?"_

John snorted, still looking at his cuffs. "You said you were clean, didn't you?"

"And you'd just blindly trust in my word?" Sherlock asked incredulously. John was loyal, yes, but he wasn't _stupid. _

John finally looked him in the face, eyes dark in the harsh fluorescent lights. "No. It's because you, more than any of the people I am acquainted with, know exactly how futile lying is in a room full of people who'd sooner or later get to the truth."

Sherlock paused, reluctant to admit that John had a point. He'd had countless people try lying to _him_ before, and he'd seen through every one. Lying was just a way for the guilty to prolong their sense of innocence until their eventual conviction.

Hell, he was a _consulting detective._ It was his _job_ to get to the truth.

"Besides, I'm a doctor," John added as an afterthought. "I would've recognized if you were on anything bad. The symptoms of heroin addiction aren't exactly subtle."

Sherlock nodded sharply, acknowledging the point.

"I've been working these past three days on finding the source behind the rising spread of substance abuse in the city," he finally admitted, giving in to his restlessness and surging to his feet, pacing back and forth from the bars of the cell to the opposite wall. John watched him with a slightly bemused expression.

"And?"

"I've uncovered an underground criminal organization selling heroin out on the streets." Sherlock's steps took him to the bars - to the wall - and back to the bars again. "Not very large, but sneaky. Well organized. They're trying to increase their power by making people addicted. Targeting people - mostly men - from their twenties to their mid-forties. Luckily, I fit into this optimal category and was immediately approached by one of their lesser middle-men with the drug once I started loitering around."

"So you just _took _it?" John glanced quickly at the cell door, making sure no officers were in sight. "You knew these people were a drug organization and you just took the drugs they offered you? What if they've got you marked out or something?"

"Unnecessary, since the man who passed me the packet had his face covered, and nothing they did or gave me could be linked to anything particularly incriminating. Of course, I could probably trace down who it was if I had personal files on everybody in London, but that would be ridiculous to attempt." Sherlock stopped at the cell bars, two handcuffed hands wrapping fingers around the cold metal. "They just gave me a small sample - you saw the size of those cubes, barely enough to get you high. They were counting on me going back there for more. That's how they operate. Give a sample, and then reel them in."

"So when were you planning on telling me this?" John demanded from his position on the floor, standing up in one fluid motion without even using his hands. Sherlock rolled his eyes - stupid military training. He suspected that John could probably pick his way out of the handcuffs in a moment if he wanted, but wouldn't since John had some notion that civilians were supposed to act civil.

Typical.

"Once you had to know," Sherlock replied vaguely. "I thought you'd enjoy three days respite from chasing after criminals." He thought back to the gala three evenings prior, scowling. "It gave you some time to get closer to whatshername, after all."

When he turned back, John was _definitely_ blushing. "You knew I was going out with Jane?"

"_Jane._ Right. That's what she was called," Sherlock recalled bitterly, deleting the name out of his memory again. "Did you have fun?"

"Well, I mean-"

"Actually, don't answer me," Sherlock interrupted, hating the foolishly content look on John's face. "Spare me the details."

John rolled his eyes. "We just went out to the pub a few times, and once to dinner," he said defensively. "Hardly anything scarring. She's a brilliant young woman, you know. Plenty smart and with a bright career ahead of her."

"Although there doesn't seem to be much direction for your relationship now that you've been caught and arrested for possession of illegal substances," Sherlock deadpanned, taking a sort of vengeful pleasure on the troubled frown that crossed John's features.

"I'm sure we can work something out," John muttered, sitting down on the cot. But to Sherlock's sharp ears, the words didn't sound nearly as hopeful as they were meant to be.

* * *

Sherlock quietly counted time in his head. From his internal clock, he suspected that it was sometime past eleven p.m. And since no sign of an officer or a guard or _anybody_ had made an appearance thus far, Sherlock deduced that Lestrade was going to keep them both here all night.

_Damn._

He turned away from the bars where he'd been standing immobile for _hours._ John was still on the cot where he'd last seen him, but instead of sitting the man was tucked neatly onto the uncomfortable mattress, shoes off, sleeping soundly. Though John's hands were still cuffed and awkwardly bound together, the man had somehow found a position that looked halfway cozy, back against the wall in a strategically defensive position.

The whole thing practically screamed '_soldier'._ John's habits were never going to leave him.

Sherlock sighed and looked around him. Truth be told, he hadn't gotten that much sleep the night before either. He'd been working the past three days nonstop uncovering the drug empire that lurked right beneath the arrogant noses of Scotland Yard's finest, running on a combination of a few hour's sleep, multiple jolts of caffeine and sugar, and his ever-present nicotine patches. Plus the food that John had brought him in the labs, though most of that had been eaten by Stamford when he came visiting to see what Sherlock was up to.

So Sherlock was tired. Not exhausted - he still had a fair bit of caffeine in his system to keep him on his feet for another day or two. But the kind of tired that made the thought of sleeping a welcoming idea.

And, of course, the only possible place in the tiny cell that he could actually _sleep_ was right next to John on the single cot in the room. Unless he were to lie down on the floor, which he didn't really fancy doing seeing as the toilet would then end up uncomfortably close to his head.

With a huff he sat down on the side of the cot and kicked off his shoes, shuffling himself into a horizontal position beside John - the movement made all the more difficult by the fact that his hands were cuffed together. John woke slightly and grumbled something indiscernible - Sherlock rather thought it was something along the lines of '_stop moving asshole_'. Sherlock smirked, turning so he was lying on his side. John resettled after a while, shifting into a more comfortable position. Sherlock adjusted his hands so the cuffs weren't restricting his blood flow, finally closing his eyes and willing himself to sleep.

* * *

The first thing that Sherlock realized upon waking was that he'd shifted in the night, somehow ending up curled around John, whose back was now facing him.

The second thing he realized was that the position was warm and actually pretty comfortable.

The third thing - the final stray thought that drifted across his mind before the rest of his brain kicked into action - was that he'd better get off the bloody cot before he thought up anything else so compromising.

But by then John was also shifting, body tensing against Sherlock's as he came awake. Sherlock froze, mind stuck as to how he could possibly explain the situation. He knew _exactly_ how embarrassing John would find their current positions to be, should he let it be discovered. And, though he normally didn't much care for how other people took his actions, John would always be different. So Sherlock used his considerable brain power to think up any possible paths with which he could proceed while avoiding a complete misunderstanding.

Lie: useless.

Tell the truth: a possibility.

Do nothing and wait for John to react first: the best choice out of the three.

John rolled around and blinked sleepily up at him, eyes lighter and bluer than Sherlock had ever seen them. Now that he was closer, he could actually distinguish a ring of brown around John's irises - which was probably what made the blue seem so dark sometimes. John smiled hazily, the last traces of sleep still clinging to his fuzzy expression. It took a moment for John to realize exactly who was staring at him from the other side of the cot.

"Sherlock!" John burst out as he became fully alert, trying to jerk away but ending up against the wall, having nowhere to move to. "What are bloody _hell_ are you doing?"

"Laying on the cot," he responded evenly, only realizing that he was holding his breath when he began to experience some early signs of asphyxiation. He inhaled deeply, detecting a whiff of John's soap-and-detergent scent in the process.

"I can see _that," _John rolled his eyes. "But why are you-" John stopped mid-sentence, craning his head around. It was impossible to tell the time in the cell, since it was underground with nothing but the fluorescent lights for illumination, but Sherlock estimated that it was sometime between seven thirty to eight in the morning.

"I fell asleep, didn't I?" John asked sheepishly.

"Yes."

"Sorry. You, uh, could've woken me," the man replied awkwardly. "I could've gotten out when you wanted to sleep."

"That would've been unnecessary," Sherlock said, frowning, "Seeing as we both can fit on the cot with a relative degree of comfort."

John grunted. When no more words were spoken, Sherlock swung his legs out of the cot and pulled himself upright, slipping his feet back inside his shoes. "You should get ready," he said over his shoulder to John, who was also sitting up. "I believe Lestrade will be coming to fetch us in for questioning in the next half-hour or so."

"What time is it?" John asked.

"Seven forty-five, with a fifteen minute margin of error," Sherlock responded briefly. John just nodded, accepting his estimate without question, putting on his own shoes. "You're hair's a mess, by the way."

It was true. John's hair had already been less than perfectly groomed the day before, and a night spent on a lumpy jail mattress had done nothing to improve its orderliness.

"So's yours," John snorted, raising an eyebrow at him. "As always."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing John back so he was sitting on the edge of the cot. "Hold still," he ordered, patting John's hair down as best as he could when both his hands were linked by the cuffs. The man's hair was surprisingly soft - something that Sherlock marveled over as the light gold strands brushed over the tips of his fingers. He ran his hands through the hair, frowning when he realized he was enjoying this perhaps more than he should.

"This needs water," he muttered. The hair may have been soft, but each strand was endlessly obstinate, quite like the man himself. It refused to lie flat, no matter how much he tried to smooth it down.

He dragged John up and to the tiny tap in the corner of the cell beside the toilet before the man could think to protest, flicking on the water and dunking John's head under the steady stream in one fluid movement.

John jerked under his grip and resurfaced, spluttering as he tried to wipe the water out of his eyes with his hands, but ended up just hitting himself in the face with his handcuffs. "That's _cold,"_ he complained loudly, blinded by the stream of water dripping from his hair down over his eyes. Sherlock snorted and wiped the droplets away for him, using both hands to push John's now sopping wet hair back away from his face.

Of course, that action somehow ended up with his arms looped around John's neck, hands twisted into the man's hair. They were just centimeters apart. Sherlock could have counted John's eyelashes if he'd wanted to.

A drop of water caught at the corner of the man's left eye dropped onto the man's cheek with a blink. Sherlock barely breathed as he traced its path down smooth skin, seeing it halt its progress on John's upper lip.

"There's water," he murmured, mouth suddenly dry. The droplet of water glistened temptingly as he somehow became parched in an instant, the moisture in his throat evaporating.

"I know," John whispered back, equally quiet. John looked up at him, and for the life of him Sherlock couldn't manage to discern just exactly what that particular expression meant.

As he watched, John's tongue darted out and licked his lips nervously, catching that single droplet of water on the tip and drawing it back into his mouth. Sherlock found himself edging closer, running entirely on impulse, thirsty and hungry and wanting _something_…

A loud clanging on the cell bars had Sherlock jerking away from John, spinning in place to see Lestrade looking at them through the metal. "Having fun this morning?" he asked sarcastically, keys jingling in his hands.

"I was just attempting to correct John's controversial hair," Sherlock said calmly, hiding the internal struggle within him through sheer force of will. Now that he was thinking rationally again - when had he _stopped?_ - he was horrified at himself. What had he been _thinking?_ Moreover, what on earth had he just been about to _do_? If Lestrade had not come just in time - Sherlock shuddered to think what the consequences would have been if he'd continued on his previous action. He didn't risk even a glance at John when Lestrade opened the cell door grudgingly for them both, instead filing out the cell with all the confidence he could muster.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hmm... somebody tell me if that ending was fluff or not. I tried to make it not so fluffy, but for some reason most things I write end up that way. Have no idea why, either. But aren't you glad Lestrade stopped Sherlock from doing anything he'd regret? At the last moment too! Right before anything happened! (evil laughter) Yep. But again, just saying, this is not slash. So don't go expecting some explicit shit cuz that's not gonna happen.

AND THANK YOU TO Mrs. Genn Quinn 16 FOR REVIEWING! I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE IMPRESSED (kyaaaa~~~~~ *ridiculous amounts of happy squealing*) I WILL TOTALLY TRY TO UPDATE AT REGULAR INTERVALS FROM NOW ON! have a warm gooey chocolate chip cookie~~

and cookies to everyone else that reviews :3


	6. Brilliant

**Disclaimer: **I often wonder what it would be like to own such amazing characters like Sherlock and John. Really, I do. Alas, some things are just not to be.

* * *

_Brilliant_

* * *

Lestrade slapped a folder of documents in front of them both. They were seated in Lestrade's office, Sherlock and John sitting on the chairs in front of the modern wood-and-steel desk. Lestrade lounged opposite them, scowling face and the extra large coffee beside his computer signifying he'd been working overnight.

"Your blood test results," Lestrade said shortly. Sherlock was hardly surprised. It wasn't that hard to guess that they'd run blood tests on them both considering they'd been allegedly arrested for drug abuse and they'd had their arms jabbed right when they'd been brought to the station the day before.

"And?" Sherlock prompted, knowing it would irritate Lestrade but unable to stop himself from making the man say it out loud.

"Clean," Lestrade ground out between clenched teeth. "Nothing. I've had them check three times but every time they said you both have been absolutely clean for the past three months."

"Nearly there," Sherlock urged.

Lestrade growled, taking a long sip of coffee for patience before continuing. "And since the video we have of you getting the drugs was captured only two days ago, we have to conclude that you haven't taken any of the drugs in that time period."

Sherlock leaned back, satisfied. "Good. Now see how easy that was? You could've just taken my word for it instead of going through all the trouble of working yourself and your team overnight just to get these tests done by this morning."

"The charges for illegal drug possession and possible trafficking still aren't dropped," Lestrade snapped. Sherlock just stared back at him calmly - Lestrade was always a bit snappish when he hadn't gotten enough sleep.

"So what I'd like to _know,"_ Lestrade continued, leaning forward over his desk, "Is why you had them in the first place, when you obviously weren't using them yourself."

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. "Now you're _finally_ asking the right questions," he said, not bothering to hide his impatience. "I'll have you know that there's a drug organization recently come into power in the London criminal underworld, operating right under the pretty noses of you inefficient people who call yourselves New Scotland Yard."

Lestrade raised one tired-looking eyebrow, scratching at the stubble scattered across his cheeks. Sherlock knew that he and John hardly looked any better - none of them had gotten proper sleep or shaved in more than a day. "Are you implying that we've been letting some drug gang prance around our city without even _noticing_?" he challenged, a dangerous edge to his voice.

"Not at all," Sherlock replied mildly. "I'm implying that you've been _allowing_ 'some drug gang to prance around your city', as you so called it, without doing anything to _stop_ it."

Lestrade flushed, slamming his hand on the table. "I'll have you know-"

"Don't make a fuss, I wasn't insinuating anything against you or your team in particular," Sherlock said dismissively, staring straight back into Lestrade's angry gray eyes. "Your team's much too boring to even think of going against regulation." He could see Lestrade calm down slightly, trying to figure out if what he'd just said was supposed to be a compliment or an insult. "Anyways, I already know one of the main undercover operatives in the police force that's working for the drug organization."

"Who?" Lestrade's eyes flicked sharply at him, obviously deciding that he would bear with Sherlock's attitude so long as he was offering new information. In other terms - as long as he was being useful. Sherlock had seen for himself just how quickly Lestrade and the rest of his team from Scotland Yard would turn on him if they had even the _slightest_ suspicion that he was on the brink of psychopathy.

Well. He always did like the sense of danger.

"The new cadet in the Police Air Support Unit," he reported. "During the Scotland Yard event four days prior I saw that he was on a heroin high even in the midst of all the officers. He was able to hide the symptoms admirably, of course, but I saw distinctly that he was breathing rather quickly and his pupils were dilated far more than ordinary for the lighted environment."

"I thought heroin abusers were supposed to be lethargic?" Lestrade pointed out.

"It varies," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The more common symptom is alternating periods of hyper alertness followed by fatigue or lethargy. The cadet was obviously under the influence of the more active cycle."

Lestrade glanced quickly at John, the doctor, who nodded once to back his statement.

Sherlock paused, cocking his head slightly and frowning. "Another thing I noticed was that the cadet was studiously avoiding eye contact with those speaking to him, and the comments he made about himself - though dismissed as modest at the time considering the event and circumstances - were noticeably negative," he recalled. "He was also wearing his long sleeved outer jacket indoors, where most had taken their jackets off at the door. This was possibly an attempt to hide more evident needle tracks on his inner arms. He was also sniffling as if in cold - yet another sign pointing towards heroin abuse."

"Brilliant," he heard John mutter from the chair beside him. Sherlock dared to give John a quick smile before returning his attention to Lestrade. This was the decisive moment - he'd revealed his lead, and it was up to Lestrade whether to believe him or throw him back into the holding cell for being in possession of those four little packets of drugs that were nearly harmless considering their minuscule quantity. Sherlock suspected Lestrade just enjoyed having an excuse to lock him up.

Lestrade sighed loudly, finishing the rest of his coffee in one long gulp and chucking the empty Styrofoam cup into the trash. He massaged his temples, casting irritated eyes in Sherlock's direction.

"_Fine,"_ he finally growled, looking as if the word was acid on his tongue. "You made your point. Now what do we do?"

Sherlock allowed himself a triumphant smirk, doing it mainly to get on Lestrade's nerves. "_Now,_"he told the Detective Inspector smugly, "all three of us will return to our respective homes to get a nice long shower and properly cleaned up. We will reconvene here in two hours' time."

"But the criminals-" Lestrade began, but Sherlock interrupted him with a confident grin.

"No need to worry about them, Detective Inspector," he said smoothly, standing up and striding to Lestrade's office door, beckoning for John to follow.

"I already know where they are."

* * *

**Author's Note:** ANOTHER CHAPTER! YAYYYY!

I know it's super short, but... well... I thought this was a good place to cut off. It's a bit of a cliffhanger (I think..?) but the next chapter should be longer. Next post will be (hopefully) tomorrow, so look forward to it! And then that's when things really start happening. You know, with the case and all. And thanks to the people who reviewed so far! hugs and cookies to you all~~~~


	7. The Clue

**__Disclaimer:** Own nothing, wants everything. Making no money either TT_TT

* * *

_The Clue_

* * *

_"You already know where they are?"_ John hissed almost as soon as they stepped out of the police headquarters, Sherlock immediately raising an arm to hail a cab.

"I do believe that is what I said," Sherlock murmured, seeing a cab pull over and opening the door, waiting for John to climb in before he did so himself. "221B Baker Street," he told the cabbie shortly, settling back in his seat as the automobile moved away from the curb.

"And _when_ were you going to tell me _this?"_ the other man asked accusingly.

"Exactly when I found out the location myself," Sherlock replied lightly, casting a glance on the angry blue eyes of his friend. Strange, really, how they seemed to change colors depending on the environment. Sherlock took a mental note to test out his hypothesis at a later date.

"But you said-"

"Which, of course," Sherlock interrupted, "Is what we are going to spend these next two hours doing before we meet back at the station with Lestrade. Change course to 395 Magnolia Street," he called to the cabbie, the man acknowledging him with a nod and an abrupt turn down a different route.

John fell silent, and a glance in his direction revealed him to be staring moodily out the window. "That _is_ acceptable to you, right?" Sherlock asked after a beat.

John turned raised eyebrows on him with something Sherlock guessed was _amusement_ in his eyes, though slight exasperation lurked right underneath. "When have you _ever_ cared whether it was acceptable to me?" he questioned.

Sherlock frowned at the evasive answer. "If it is not acceptable then-"

"It's fine, Sherlock," John muttered, holding back a snort. "It's better than letting you go running off around London by yourself, anyways. God knows what sort of trouble you'll end up in."

Sherlock huffed, knowing _exactly_ to which incident John was referring to. "I was in no danger whatsoever from that serial killer cabbie," he scoffed. "I had chosen the correct pill. Even if I _had_ taken it - which I had had no intention of doing - I would have been in no danger. He would still have died, I would still have lived. There was no need for you to intervene."

John snorted. "No, of course not," Sherlock heard the man mutter under his breath. "You had it all under control."

There was another beat of silence, in which only the whirring of the cab's engine and the muffled sounds of traffic outside could be heard. When they were nearly at their destination - minutes away, in fact - Sherlock heard John speak again.

"I _was_ looking forward to that shower, though."

* * *

They stood on the doorstep of 395 Magnolia Street, a tiny three-story apartment that looked like it'd been crammed between the two large residential buildings on either side of it and promptly forgotten. John stared up at the dismal looking place with a bit of concern, seeing the way the structure was sagging against its supports, mold and mildew seeping out of the cracks in the walls.

The whole thing looked like it could come down at any moment.

"And where, exactly, are we?" John asked, keeping his voice light as Sherlock led the way up to the front door, rapping the knocker sharply three times.

"I'd have thought it'd be obvious by now," Sherlock murmured quietly. "I did, after all, declare the address in the cab."

John huffed. "_Sherlock,"_ he stressed, raising an eyebrow at the small smirk the man directed his way.

"We are at the house of Charles T. Monroe," Sherlock told him, frowning in irritation when there was no answer at the door. He rapped the knocker again, four times.

John rolled his eyes. "Any plans to tell me who the hell _that's _supposed to be, and how he's going to help us find the base of these drug dealers that you've apparently been involved with?"

"Charles Monroe is the name of the Cadet I witnessed on a heroin high at the time of the Scotland Yard event, and currently our only reliable lead on the case," Sherlock explained, feeling a little thrill of smug satisfaction when John looked at him with that admiring, astonished look whenever he demonstrated a particularly impressive piece of intelligence. "You already know how I knew he was high, and I recognized his rank by his uniform and cap."

"And what about his name and his address, then?" John didn't look suspicious so much as curious and amused - Sherlock had found out that unlike most people, John accepted his deductions as the truth without having to be laboriously convinced of it each time. Instead, the man seemed to find his never-ending deductions almost as a source of… entertainment.

It was a novel idea, to say the least. One which Sherlock had no reservations indulging in when it meant John would look at him like that…

"Simple. The name was stitched onto the front of his uniform - a customary practice so as to better identify single officers in the police force."

"And the address?"

"Overheard him talking to a female at one point. It was obvious he was trying to proposition her, and he gave her his address. It was no trouble to simply memorize the address and link it to his name." Sherlock gave John a sly grin. "And before you ask, no, overhearing it is not cheating. It's a form of _listening - _a practice that precious few people actually care to engage in nowadays when they're all so busy running off their own mouths for personal amusement."

"Well. I'm glad your opinion on society in general hasn't changed," John snorted beside him.

"Oh, not at all," Sherlock replied. "My opinion on society in general has changed greatly. It has sunk lower in my esteem than I had thought it able to fall."

John was still chuckling by the time the door _finally _swung open, a grouchy middle aged man who looked like he'd never seen a shower before facing them through the tiny crack. "Whaddya want?" he muttered in annoyance, giving them both a once-over. "If you're selling sumthin' then just know I dun want it."

The man made to slam the door closed in their faces, but John quickly put a foot between the door and the frame. Sherlock silently applauded the man's reflexes, turning back to the irritated resident. "We're looking for a Charles T. Monroe," he said bluntly. "We know he lives here."

The man's eyes narrowed dangerously, greasy hair framing his expression. "And whaddya want with lil' Charlie?" he asked suspiciously, glaring at John's foot wedged in his doorway.

"Nothing of your concern," Sherlock replied haughtily. "Just bring him here. We have something important to discuss with him."

"He's not in."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a brief moment against the blatant lie. "Yes, he is," he corrected, seeing the man's mouth turn down in a scowl at his contradiction. "I know he's in there. It would be in your best interests to bring him out."

When the man refused to move, Sherlock glared. "_Now."_

"I'll need some proper ID before that," the man said annoyingly, obviously certain that they had none.

Sherlock growled.

"Dun have none then dun come in!" the man yelled, moving to slam the door again. This time John wedged his entire leg in to stop him, forcing the door open the entire way and crowding the man back into the entryway.

"You can't come in!" the man shouted, trying to beat John back. But he was no match against the smaller ex-soldier. John managed to get him into a headlock with dangerous efficiency, looking back up at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, looks like we've got the right place, then," the doctor said, completely ignoring the squirming man in his iron hold.

Sherlock grinned. "Did you doubt me?"

"Not at all."

"I'm gonna call the cops! This is breaking and entering! Intrusion on private property! I'll have you sentenced!" The man wasn't giving up. Sherlock snorted in irritation and flashed a Scotland Yard ID in his face. He'd picked it off of Lestrade just that morning when the Detective Inspector had released them from the holding cell. It'd been to irritate the man as much as to take his mind off of what had just happened…

The man's face fell at once when he saw the official ID, though Sherlock made sure he wasn't able to look at it for long enough that he'd see the face in the picture in no way resembled his own. "I'm sure we'll receive your full cooperation?" he said icily to the man, pocketing the ID once more.

The man nodded reluctantly and John carefully released him. "This way," he muttered, leading them up a flight of stairs to the top floor, banging heavily on the door at the end of the hall.

"Charlie!" the man yelled loudly, audible even over the sounds of loud music blaring through the walls from one of the other rooms. "Open up! Some people here to see you."

There was no answer, and the man pummeled his fist into the flimsy door hard enough to have it rattle. "Charlie!" he barked again.

When again there was no answer, the man smiled nervously at them while fumbling a set of master keys from his belt. Sherlock looked on impassively - no doubt the man thought that they'd arrest _him_ if Charles was nowhere to be found.

"Right. I'll get you in there in a sec," the man grumbled. "Charlie's not usually so stubborn see? He's a cadet in the police air force I hear. Wonder what the kid did to land himself in trouble with you two gents…"

The right key finally appeared and was jabbed into the lock, the door swinging open on creaky hinges. Sherlock brushed past the muttering man, his usefulness gone now that they'd gained entry into Charles' apartment. He was vaguely aware of John following right behind him, leaving the landlord at the door, who said something about giving them time and stomping back down the stairs.

A slight crackling sound from the bathroom caught Sherlock's attention and he strode briskly towards the door, kicking it open in an efficient move. It was dark inside, and he could only just make out the dark figure of a body lying draped over the toilet. The stench of drugs spilled over him in a wave, making him think for just a split second that _maybe_…

He stepped back quickly, sleeve held tight over his nose and mouth. No. He was clean. And he'd promised himself he'd never go back.

John was there, suddenly, hands on his shoulders and a worried look in his dark blue eyes. He didn't say anything - he didn't need to. With a short nod Sherlock stepped further back into the room, away from the bathroom door, while John stepped back out with the vacant form of Charles Monroe lifeless in his arms. John set the body down on the living room rug and quickly shut the bathroom door with a click, locking the rest of the fumes within. It was only then that John took a deep breath - he must've been holding it the whole time.

Sherlock cautiously lowered his sleeve from his face, still able to smell a faint trace of heroin in the air. He gagged at the bitter sweetness, opening all the windows in the tiny apartment to get some fresh air. He stood at the window for a moment, just clearing his lungs of the drug and refilling them with the brisk humidity of London.

"Dead," John proclaimed from his position, bent over the dead body. "Drug overdose. He'd smoked it and injected himself at the same time, from what I can tell."

"Time?" Sherlock asked, still not turning away from the window. The body would smell like the drug. He needed all his wits about him before he could even hope to start inspecting it.

"I'd say more than three hours, less than five," John's voice came behind him, confident and clinical. Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself a small smile. This was yet another reason why John was perfect for him, so completely _fantastic_ without showing it at all. The man knew exactly what he needed _when_ he needed it; and right now, Sherlock needed them both to be focused on the case.

It was uncanny how easily they worked together - and Sherlock couldn't help the little coil of warmth that tightened in his gut when he realized it.

He turned back to face the body, portable magnifying glass already out in hand as he gave the body a once-over. "Tracks on arms - new injections. I'd say the wounds were made sometime in the last five hours, which fits your approximation on time of death," Sherlock murmured, as much to himself as to John, who was listening quietly as he worked. "Bags under his eyes, pale skin - fatigue, but also worry. Slight bruise on his cheek - a slap? Dumped, then. Emotional trauma, which most likely led to the overdose. She dumped him because of the drugs, since there's nothing else wrong with him. Hair slightly damp - recently showered. So he'd been planning on going to work this morning, decided to take a quick joint to cheer himself up, and then died from overdose."

"Amazing," John muttered.

Sherlock tilted his head up and grinned at the man, the dead body between them. "Do you realize you do that out loud?" he said softly, remembering that first day that they'd met and echoing his own words.

John rolled his eyes at him, fond exasperation in his smile. "And you love every second of it you egotistical sociopath."

Sherlock inclined his head, eyebrow raised in a clear _touché_. For some reason, it never really bothered him when John called him names - not that people calling him names bothered him in general, of course. It was just that John somehow had the unique ability to make scathing insults from others sound almost like… endearments. Sherlock knew it was because John never really meant any of it, but it didn't stop that warm feeling from curling in on itself all the more.

"But he's dead, Sherlock," John continued, looking at the body with a frown. "How are we going to find the location of the dealers when our lead is dead?"

"He's our lead whether dead or alive," Sherlock said, picking himself up off the floor and rummaging around the apartment, throwing useless junk and various paraphernalia into the center of the room. "Besides, dead men tell no lies, as the saying goes."

"Right," he heard John grumble as the shorter man got up, dusting himself off. "Of course not."

Sherlock spent the next forty minutes rifling through Charles' belongings, ransacking his kitchen, overturning his bedroom, and making the main room look like a bomb had gone off. John tried to stay mainly out of his way - which was appreciated. The only place where Sherlock did _not_ go was into the bathroom - but when his own search proved futile, he decided that the bathroom, too, would have to be searched.

"John," he said, getting the smaller man's attention, staring at the closed bathroom door and trying to force down the odd, irrational urge to fling it open and padlock it closed at the same time. "The bathroom."

John glanced at him, understanding without having to be told. "Should I…?"

"No. You don't know what you're looking for."

John frowned in frustration. "Can't you just _tell_ me what I'm supposed to be looking for?"

"No," Sherlock said bluntly. "I don't know what I'm looking for either."

"Then how-"

"I'll know it when I see it."

John sighed, long and deep, muttering "_stupid geniuses,"_ as he went into the kitchen, grabbing a hand towel and wetting it in the sink. "Tie this around your face, then," he said, doing it himself. Sherlock took an experimental breath as John's fingers tied the cloth at the back of his head. He couldn't smell anything; only the cold wetness against his face. "And try holding your breath as much as you can. Keep the door open when you go in."

Sherlock cast a sharp look at the determined doctor. "But then the fumes would come into the room," he pointed out.

"The windows are all open," John shrugged. "And it'll be dispersed enough when it comes out that it'd hardly be harmful. Just worry about yourself. And come out if you feel anything funny."

Sherlock nodded and stepped to the door in three quick strides, his hand falling on the cool metal doorknob. He willed himself to turn it, but something stopped his hand. A panic perhaps - he felt slightly nauseous, already imagining he could smell the scent of drugs despite the cloth that covered his face.

He couldn't do this. The drugs - the addiction. The _need._ It was all too familiar to him, his body craving just another hit, just one tiny little break in his resolve…

But then another hand was on top of his on the doorknob. John had gotten himself a towel-mask as well, eyes hard as he twisted the knob and stepped through first, Sherlock having no choice but to follow. John began opening the cabinets under the sink, the cupboards, the air inside the confined space hazy from the remnants of smoke. Sherlock forced himself to concentrate, eyes scanning over every object, every smudge-

_There._

Garbage bin. He picked it out carefully, the brown paper crinkling in his fingers. The same as the wrapper on the packet of drugs he'd gotten. So he'd been right - Charles Monroe _had _been connected to the same drug organization he'd been tracking. John turned and looked at him, eyebrow raised.

Sherlock shook his head, answering the silent question. It was a hint, but not enough. They had to keep searching.

The shower, the toilet tank, even the sink drain was searched. Sherlock had almost given up when he caught the little slip of paper that fell out of the bottom of Charles' shaving kit when John emptied that onto the counter.

He held up a hand, picking up the paper. On it was only a set of numbers, scrawled in messy print that belonged unmistakably to a man of low education. A man that was definitely _not_ Charles T. Monroe.

A phone number.

And then he flipped the slip around and saw an '_x' _drawn in the center of seemingly random branching lines. In the hands of anybody else the little lines wouldn't have meant anything, but Sherlock Holmes wasn't just anybody else. He could feel himself smile underneath his mask, adrenaline pumping. It was a mark of the relatively inexperienced drug gang that they'd made such a juvenile mistake.

They'd drawn a _map_.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yep, as promised, another chapter today :D And since it's Thanksgiving (in Canada anyways, I know America has a different date in November) I'm gonna give thanks~~! Lots of it. THANK YOU. ALL OF YOU. YES, I MEAN YOU PERSONALLY. And yes, I CAN see you reading this, thinking that it's not actually about you but here's a secret: it IS.

Lol jks I'm not some creepy stalker that's watching you read this through the window. I'm not THAT weird. (yet)

So anybody have any idea where this story should go from now on? I have a rough idea, but it's always great to hear suggestions~~ Thanks to people who reviewed so far! here're your promised cookies~~~ 3 Yeah, advice/criticism/random things you wanna say are always appreciated. Hope you people like the story :)


	8. The Plan

**Disclaimer:** Really, for some reason I feel compelled to repeat this every time, but I know it's wholly unnecessary. Oh well. Here we go again. Nothing's mine. Except the storyline. Hope you like it people!

* * *

_The Plan_

* * *

Sherlock tapped furiously at his phone on the cab drive back to the station, pulling up locations from all over London. For a newly started drug dealership, the probability that they would've spread anywhere other than the city was highly unlikely. So the dealers were somewhere in London, then, hiding amidst the crowded streets and twining alleys, concealed from sight. They were invisible, mere phantoms in the shadows. Insubstantial.

But not for long.

Sherlock had already memorized the array of pencil scratches on the tiny scrap of paper, and the slip itself was currently nestled safely in his coat pocket. He scowled in frustration as yet another portion of London was discarded when the streets didn't match perfectly with the diagram that he'd found. He clicked at his phone, willing it to bring up what he wished.

"What's wrong?" came John's concerned voice beside him, loud in the otherwise silent cab.

"The streets do not match," he replied tersely, clicking yet again to look at a different portion of the city. Useless - the curves of the streets didn't conform, or there was a difference in the exact angle of the turnoffs. "The map doesn't fit in with any intersections I can find…"

"What if they're not streets?" John asked after a brief silence, making Sherlock's frantic fingers still. He turned to John, eyes piercing - but as always John just stared calmly back, blue eyes furrowed in thought. "What if they're, oh, I don't know, old Tube tunnels? Remember that rendezvous with the Black Lotus a few months back? This gang could be hiding out in those old tunnels as well."

It was like a smack in the face. So _obvious - _he could've laughed at himself for his oversight. As such his lips did turn up in a wide grin, hands coming up to grab both sides of John's head as he shook the smaller man in his seat.

"_Amazing,_ John,_"_ he breathed, looking at this singular man, so ordinary and yet so incredibly complex. "You're absolutely _brilliant_." He could've kissed him. In fact, now that the thought was in his head, Sherlock realized that he _could_ kiss him. His hands were holding John's head steady, their bodies - already stuffed next to each other in the limited space of the cab - pressed enticingly close. All it would take was a dip of his head, and then…

John cleared his throat, eyes shifting away with a small frown between his eyebrows. Sherlock jerked back to his own side of the seat, blinking quickly. These momentary lapses in control were getting increasingly frequent, he noticed. These brief surges of _sentiment - _he didn't know what to make of them.

But more than that - he didn't know if he'd like the answer.

"So you think there might be a possibility that the dealers are hiding in the Tube tunnels, then?"

Sherlock dragged his mind back to the case at hand. He could examine his own increasingly variable mental state at a later date. Now, there were more important things to be focusing on. Namely the location of the dealers that he'd promised Lestrade, which he would have to make good on in - he checked his phone's clock - exactly seven minutes and thirty-nine seconds.

Plenty of time, now that he knew what exactly he was looking for.

"More than just a possibility, my dear doctor Watson," Sherlock murmured beneath his breath, fingers tapping with renewed vigor at the keys of his mobile. "I think that's _exactly_ where they are."

He felt John lean in closer, peering over his shoulder as he drew up maps of London Underground. The increased proximity made his fingers falter for the briefest moment - and then he forced himself to concentrate and ignore the faint whiff of detergent and tea that wafted in his direction. John's scent could be a drug all on it's own, Sherlock thought idly as he examined the map, tracing similarities with his eyes. It really should be illegal to smell so attractive.

But that was only in a purely theoretical, objective sense, of course. It didn't mean Sherlock _himself_ found the scent attractive at all.

"There," he said triumphantly, eyes catching on a section of the Underground that held the exact layout of the scratches on the paper. He looked closer and saw that the segment of tunnel had been abandoned for _years_ now, left to crumble on its own when London had switched to the modern subway system rather than the old-fashioned trams. He read the minuscule print the internet image provided - '_Kingsway Tramway Subway'_ it declared, microscopic letters tracing the path of the curving tunnels. And the '_x'_ that had been on the map showed the dealers' location to be right at the main junction. A strategic location, with easy access to the sewers and other Tube stations all over the city.

Perhaps these drug dealers weren't as juvenile as he'd first supposed.

"You've found it?" John asked with raised eyebrows. Sherlock grinned at him.

"Of course," he said smugly. "And the location isn't far. Just across the river and down a ways. The nearest entrance is right by the bridge."

John shook his head. The cab pulled up by the curb, Sherlock passing the fare to the cabbie before crawling out of the cab. Cast-iron skies crowded overhead, making Sherlock turn up the collar of his coat against the chilly wind. "Rain soon," he commented, seeing John's eyes also flick up to the clouds.

"Sherlock!"

They both looked back as Lestrade approached them, appearing distinctly more alert and refreshed than when they'd seen him earlier that morning. Obviously, the Detective Inspector had taken Sherlock's suggestion to go home and shower to heart. Lestrade's bright-eyed greeting dulled somewhat to confused suspicion when he saw the state the two were in.

"You didn't go home, did you?" Lestrade deadpanned as soon as they were close enough that they didn't have to shout to be heard.

Sherlock snorted. "How did you know?" he asked sarcastically, fully aware of the stubble on his and John's faces, not to mention their unkempt hair and wrinkled appearances. "But at least your rather obvious observation shows that you are not completely mentally challenged."

Lestrade's lips thinned, a sure sign that he was angry but trying not to show it.

"No, we didn't get the chance to do that," John interjected hastily, before Sherlock could say something else that would tip Lestrade over the edge. "We actually spent the past few hours searching Charles Monroe's apartment for any leads as to the location of the gang."

Lestrade frowned. "But I thought you said that you already-"

"We do now," Sherlock interrupted, flicking out his phone and showing Lestrade the section of the London Underground that he'd pulled up. "Old Kingsway tram tunnels. Ingenious."

"Wait - so you _didn't_ know the location when you told me you did two hours ago?"

"Technicality," Sherlock dismissed. "It doesn't matter now as we have found their precise location using Charles' memo."

"Yeah, I was wondering, who exactly _is_ this Charles Monroe guy anyways?" Lestrade demanded, thoroughly confused now and not a little annoyed at the half-answers he was receiving.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and opened his mouth, about to offer some curt remark on Lestrade's intellect, but John stepped in again. "Charles Monroe is the name of the Cadet that Sherlock said was one of the main undercover operatives of the gang in New Scotland Yard," he explained, with more patience than Sherlock could've ever hoped to scrape together. "We went to his flat just now and searched through his belongings, where we found a map telling us of the location of the gang's base."

"And this Cadet just _let_ you do that?" Lestrade asked, suspicious tone creeping into his voice. "I find it difficult to believe he'd just _allow_ you to search his property for evidence against him."

"He's dead," Sherlock said shortly. Lestrade turned stunned eyes on him, fingers twitching to his gun in his holster.

"Oh for goodness' sake, Lestrade," Sherlock said impatiently, "_We_ didn't kill him. He was already dead when we arrived - and before you ask, no, we didn't break into his flat either. His landlord was kind enough to let us in when we made it clear we had business with him."

"You should probably send a team to retrieve the body," John added, always the reasonable one. "The address is 395 Magnolia Street. He died of drug overdose, at approximately seven this morning."

Lestrade stared at them both with slack-jawed incredulity. Slowly, he lifted his pager from his belt and typed in a quick message - probably alerting another team about the body at the specified location. "Okay, so you found the location," Lestrade said, mind still struggling to grasp the information he'd been bombarded with. "And now we…?"

"Go get them, of course," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "We can wrap this whole thing up by teatime. There's a nice café I've been meaning to try down on Georgia. They have legendary scones."

This last part was said to John, with a sort of childish eagerness that made the doctor roll his eyes. Lestrade just watched the consulting detective with a detached fascination, unable to believe the difference in the way Sherlock behaved towards John compared to the rest of the world. It was almost as if to the great Sherlock Holmes, nobody else mattered except his one and only impromptu 'friend'.

It was nearly sweet, in a Sherlock-is-a-self-proclaimed-sociopathic-genius sort of way.

"Right," Lestrade said, forcing himself to stop trying to analyze the relationship between the consulting detective and his friend. "Just give me a moment to call up my team. They should be ready in ten minutes."

* * *

The pack of police cars were already clustered around the old tunnel opening by the time their cab rolled to a stop by the riverbank, now transformed into a forest of yellow tape. John stepped out onto the gray pebbly sand, Sherlock right after him after paying the fare. Sherlock had refused to join Lestrade or any of the other officers in their squad cars, which meant they'd arrived dead last at the location in their cab since the squad cars with sirens wailing were able to easily bypass the busy London traffic.

Not that Sherlock really minded, though. He rather liked making Lestrade and the rest of his team wait. Reminded them just who, exactly, they were all depending on.

"Finally made it huh, freak?" Donovan called out as they approached, already waiting for them at the border of the taped off area. She had her arms crossed, hair frazzled - apparently, she'd been on the overnight shift Lestrade had called after their 'arrest' the previous day.

"I see that you've been waiting," Sherlock replied mildly, pulling the police tape up so he could step under, holding it for John who followed right behind. "I'm sure checking my records was an absolutely _scintillating _way of spending your evening last night."

She scowled darkly, leveling a murderous glare in his direction. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, seeing her jaw clench.

"And especially since Anderson's wife is finally out of town again," he remarked after a closer inspection of her clothing and expression. "Truly a pity you were forced to work all through last night when you two could've engaged in something far more... s_trenuous."_

_"_That's _it!"_ she screeched, cheeks flushing a light pink. "You're mental! Absolutely, completely, utterly _mental!"_

She stomped away without another word, heading for the tunnel entrance which was crowded with various officers rechecking their guns and communication earpieces before going in. He watched her go with a satisfied smirk - and then turned to see John's raised eyebrow pointedly directed at him in an obvious reproach.

He shrugged. "Entertainment," he answered carelessly, smiling again at the twitch of John's lips that told him the man was amused but trying not to show it. That strange warmth curled in his gut again, prompting him to drag John by the sleeve through the sea of officers until they reached Lestrade in the very center.

"You realize there are alternative routes out from the Kingsway tramway besides this one?" Sherlock asked when Lestrade turned from barking orders at some new recruits. He kept his grip on John's sleeve, a corner of the material clutched in his fingers. It was oddly… pleasant, somehow, feeling the weight of John's arm through his hold on the fabric. He debated over whether or not to conduct a more in-depth search into the correlation between sleeves and pleasure later.

"Got them all blocked up," Lestrade reported with a grin. "Teams dotted all across London at any possible exit. I'm not as stupid as you might think, you know."

"Could've fooled me," Sherlock muttered. But by then Lestrade had already turned away to shout at somebody else for something trivial, so unfortunately he didn't hear. John did, though, and he really did snort this time in laughter. Sherlock sent him a conspiratorial grin, hand tightening ever so slightly on the other man's sleeve.

The fact that Lestrade hadn't heard him didn't really matter anymore.

A blaring screech suddenly cut through the air and all heads turned to watch the approaching vehicle, blue and red lights flashing angrily as it pulled to a stop on the fringes of the cordoned area. A single officer stepped out, rushing into the clustered officers already assembled. She - for as she came closer they were able to ascertain that it was, in fact, a woman - made her way directly to Lestrade, snapping into a clean salute.

"Officer Caraway reporting for duty, sir!" she announced. "I'm the transfer Head Inspector Lawrence referred to you."

Sherlock felt John tug his sleeve out of his grasp and felt a momentary pang of disappointment before the man stepped forward, astonished smile in place.

"Jane!"

The officer's pretty brown eyes blinked to John, a delighted flush spreading across her cheeks. "John!" she answered excitedly, dropping out of her formal salute at Lestrade's nod of recognition. "What're you doing here?"

_Jane_. Right. That was the name of the woman John had met back at that dreadful party, the name that Sherlock had deleted from his mind twice already. He glowered at her over John's shoulder, but she hardly seemed to notice. Indeed, she only had eyes for John, it would seem. His pang of disappointment soon twisted into something darker, heavier…

What was the matter with him?

"I can't believe we're meeting here, of all places," she was saying when Sherlock finally managed to extricate his thoughts from the jumble of sentiment that threatened to well up. "I thought you said you were a doctor?"

John coughed, embarrassed. "Well, uh, I help out a bit around here when I'm not at the surgery. This is my partner Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective."

So saying, John turned and gestured to Sherlock. Jane's smile wavered just a little as she met his eyes, no doubt from the hostile stare he aimed in her direction. But she held out her hand nonetheless, earning herself a grateful smile from John and nearly tangible animosity from Sherlock.

"Jane Caraway," she introduced brightly, her hand hovering in the space between them. "Pleasure to meet you."

Sherlock just glowered, ignoring the hand. After a beat of silence Jane swallowed and dropped her hand. "Okay," she said slowly, not meeting his eyes. "Um, yeah. John's told me a lot about you."

"Has he?" Sherlock said flatly. He was liking her less and less with each passing second.

"Yeah. You guys are flatmates, right? He's always telling me about how the fridge is full of body parts and he can't get a moment's rest and there's violin music at three in the morning."

"Jane," John coughed, aiming a pleading look in her direction. Sherlock saw, while Jane giggled. He frowned, readjusting his conclusion. He didn't just _dislike_ her, he outright _despised_ her.

"Oops, was I not supposed to say?" she half-whispered nervously, fidgeting under Sherlock's unwavering gaze. He sneered at her blundering attempts at making conversation, wondering how on earth John could ever find somebody so dreadfully _uninteresting_ even remotely attractive.

But John just rolled his eyes with fond exasperation at her embarrassed grimace, and that was what tipped Sherlock over the edge. That eye-roll - _his _eye-roll. Nobody else was supposed to make John roll his eyes like he wanted to be angry but couldn't find it in him to actually get upset. That was _his_ job. _His_ privilege. Not some giggly girl who John had just met hardly five days ago.

A small, detached part of his mind that remained lucid throughout the whirling sentiment calmly wondered if perhaps what he was experiencing was what most people would call _jealousy._

But the other, larger part of his consciousness couldn't find it in him to care.

"Well, if you'll excuse me while you two chatter about the horrors of living with me, I'll be busy catching some gangsters in the tunnels," he snapped sharply, shoving his way between the two of them and stalking to the front of the groups preparing to enter the tramway. And he did _not_ stomp. Not even a little. He wasn't _that_ petty.

But he _did_ glance back, hopefully, unwillingly, only to see John smiling apologetically at Jane and saying something that he was too far away to hear. But Sherlock had mastered the art of lip reading since he was twelve years old - it was hardly a problem figuring out the words.

"_Sorry - he's always like that,"_ John's lips read, a mixture of embarrassment and discomfort in his expression.

"_How can you even live with him?"_ the girl asked huffily, frowning and putting a comforting hand on John's shoulder. John shifted a tiny bit closer to her, so that they were standing closer than what Sherlock deemed to be a proper distance between two individuals in public. In fact, Sherlock was almost too busy glaring daggers at that intrusive hand on his John's shoulder that he nearly missed what the man said next.

"_Sometimes I ask myself the same thing."_

* * *

**Author's Note:** SHE'S BACK! JANE IS BACK! Thought I'd forget about her, huh? Well, nope. Bam. Boom. Crash. and she is _BACK._ Yep. After all, she _is_ an active police agent, as Sherlock correctly deduced a while back. Long-ish chapter, I think? Although I don't really know about this chapter... it kinda makes me feel iffy. Like there's something missing... hmm... oh well. Hope you guys like it! Review please and tell me what you think~~~ :D

Aaaaaaad... next chapter update should be... tomorrow (hopefully). Although I really should be doing homework.. -.- Oh well. Writing is more important than homework anyways :P


	9. Freeze! Police!

**Disclaimer: **Again, not mine. Blah blah blah.

* * *

_Freeze! Police!_

* * *

Sherlock was angry.

John could tell that much as they edged carefully deeper into the catacombs of the abandoned Kingsway tramway, heading slowly towards the center branch where Sherlock had said the gang had made their base. Well, perhaps 'angry' wasn't exactly right - more like silently fuming while pointedly ignoring his existence. Something that John found Sherlock was actually ridiculously good at doing, much to his annoyance.

He drew level with the consulting detective, who made no indication of his presence. John rolled his eyes.

"You're sulking," he said quietly, his voice barely above the sound of their footsteps.

But Sherlock heard. Of course he did.

"I'm not," was the low reply.

"You are," John insisted, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead, flashlight beam pointed down with his borrowed gun held loosely in his hand.

"Not." Sherlock hadn't been given a gun - the man hardly knew how to use one anyways, and his aim was terrible. Sherlock had been offered a flashlight though, but had rejected it on the grounds that the officer who tried to give it to him hadn't washed his hands after he'd picked his nose.

How Sherlock could have possibly deduced that, seeing as the officer in question had been wearing gloves at the time, John had no idea.

"Yes," he argued. He was _right_, and John was nothing if not stubborn.

"No."

"Prove it."

Sherlock's eyes finally slid down to glance at him, a flinty gray in the sparse lighting. "Sulking is to be silent, morose, and bad-tempered due to annoyance or disappointment," he snapped, sounding like he was reciting from Webster's Dictionary. But then again, knowing Sherlock, he probably was.

"Seeing as I am talking to you right now, I am not silent," he continued, actually taking John up on his challenge to 'prove it'. "I am not being gloomy, and my temper is as it has always been. I have had no cause to be excessively annoyed or disappointed within the past few hours, so thus I would have no reason to be sulking in the first place. Therefore your observation is completely unfounded and based upon nothing but the sheer fact that you _feel_ that I am sulking."

Sherlock paused, observing John's reaction from the corner of his eye. He'd been telling the truth - he really didn't have any _reason _to be so annoyed or disappointed. What John did in his spare time - and who he spent that time with - was no business of his. The thought shouldn't have bothered him. He shouldn't have even _cared._

Of course, not having a legitimate _reason_ didn't mean he _wasn't._

John was silent, expression unimpressed.

"Satisfied?"

"No."

Sherlock scowled.

"You definitely weren't sulking before," John continued, thinking out loud and trying to trace their actions in his mind. With a slight shudder he realized he was _deducing - _Sherlock was rubbing off on him. "You were fine when we got here. Until…"

Sherlock's scowl deepened, already recognizing the train of John's thoughts.

"Is this because of Jane?" John asked quietly, a frown between his eyebrows.

"No." Fast - much too fast. Even to Sherlock's ears the denial rang false.

John raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe," Sherlock corrected grudgingly.

"Look, she's not going to distract you from your work. She's a perfectly capable officer-"

"I know," he replied bluntly. "That's not the problem."

"So you admit that there _is_ a problem."

Sherlock didn't have to glance down again to know John was grinning smugly at him. He huffed and ignored the comment, preferring instead to stare stonily forwards as they delved deeper into the tunnels. From his mental map, he predicted that the junction they were heading for would be just in another couple hundred yards. In fact, if he squinted past the white fluorescent glare of the officers' flashlights he could detect a soft yellowish light coming from up ahead.

He slowed down.

John noticed the movement and did the same, raising a hand and signaling to Lestrade using quick, confident gestures. Within moments their group's movement had slowed to a stealthy crawl, all flashlights now clicked off to prevent the light from alerting the gang of their approach.

They edged forwards until they were at the very corner of the tunnel, right before it branched off into the main junction. The yellow light came just from within - Sherlock pressed himself flat against the wall, John right beside him. The rest of the officers had lined themselves up likewise down the tunnel from where they'd come, waiting for the signal to go in.

Sherlock met John's eyes - they looked more brown than blue now - and idly admired the way the half-light played over the man's hair, bringing out gold highlights. John's face was set and determined, his flashlight pocketed so he had one hand free, the other holding the gun at ready. Sherlock let himself indulge in his worry for a single second, let himself face what was _really _bugging him. He wondered for the briefest moment whether John had meant what he'd said to the woman out there.

He wondered if John really didn't like living with him that much after all.

Sherlock forced his brain to _focus, _pushing his doubts and uncertainties to the back for later examination. They were on a _case. _He jerked his head down, once, in a sharp nod. John raised his hand, three fingers outstretched.

_Three._

The hand was fully visible to the rest of the officers down the lineup, silhouetted as it was against the light. Sherlock took a deep breath, feeling his adrenaline spike. This was it. This was the moment. They were going in.

_Two._

It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that he'd forgotten what it was like before he'd met John. He'd lived alone, yes, but he hadn't even known he _was_ alone until John had come and suddenly, he _wasn't_. It was like an empty spot he'd never known existed was filled after the man had come into his life, after that first time when John had called him his friend. It was foreign and not a little frightening when Sherlock realized how dependent he'd become on John's sheer presence at his side, John's grumbles and smiles and exasperated eye-rolls that he'd learned to...

To what?

_One._

He didn't know what was happening to him. This strange warmth in the pit of his stomach, that dark irrational feeling when John was with his girlfriend. Complicated and illogical, this was precisely why Sherlock hated the thought of _sentiment. _What he did - deducing facts, traits, trends - that was _easy_. But human emotions were always a jumbled mess, with no beginning and no end.

Better to pretend none of this was happening. To bury them deep within himself and lock them up tight with walls of ice around his heart. It was better this way - less painful this way. This way, there was no chance that anybody, _ever_, would be able to break him.

It was what he'd always done. And what he always will do.

_Zero. _

They surged forwards, a flood of uniforms and weapons and stamping boots. John stuck to him, gun sweeping to defend either of them at a moment's notice. His heart was thudding against his ribcage at the anticipation of the conclusion of the case and somewhere along the line he'd grabbed John's hand. He saw the officers fan out behind them in a classic drill formation, weapons aimed and faces grim.

A single shout rang out, loud and clear.

"Freeze! Police!"

* * *

**Author's Note****: **Aaaand here's the promised update today! Thanks for the reviews already, even though I just posted it last night. It's not as long as the previous one, but it seemed like a good place to cut it off. Don't worry, the action _really_ begins in the next chapter onwards. This was just a lead up - of sorts. Although... check in later today (if you can) because I might add a little section that doesn't really fit anywhere but needs to be there. So... the next update should be in about... hmm... four or five hours? Haha I'm trying to update this story as fast as I can so... yep. Anyways, hope you liked it! As always, please please review~~~~~ you'll get cookies 3 and maybe more updates too ;)


	10. Click

**Disclaimer: **I'm actually starting to get depressed by restating every time that nothing's actually mine... TT_TT

* * *

_Click_

* * *

_"Freeze! Police!_"

The echoes bounced around the central station, vibrations lingering in the air long after. There was no sound, no flutter - Sherlock couldn't even hear the others _think. _It was dead still, his eyes roving around the cavernous area, picking up clues and hints and things that most people would normally miss. But it took no stroke of genius to come to his first deduction; it was glaringly apparent the instant they'd burst into the station.

Empty.

There was nobody there.

_Nothing._

He heard the rustle of unease as the officers behind him looked about in confusion, obviously at a loss for what to do. There were clicks as weapons were lowered, the safeties switched back onto their guns. And then there was Lestrade, grabbing him by the arm and hissing into his ear.

"I thought you said they'd _be here."_

Sherlock stared around blankly, the machine of his mind calculating this unforeseen variable into all the equations it'd previously established. He ignored the livid DI at his side, not even hearing the expletives and questions Lestrade was aiming at him.

He hardly noticed when John came and pried Lestrade off of him, diverting the DI's attention to other things and giving him time to really _think._

The gang wasn't here. That fact was obvious, he'd have to be blind to miss it. But the question was _why._

Was the map they'd found in Charles Monroe's apartment wrong?

No, not likely, since it would be highly inconvenient for one of the gang's top inside informers to get lost every time he tried to make contact. Not to mention the fact that the map had been drawn in an intentionally vague manner, hinting at its authenticity.

Then they'd gotten the wrong part of London?

He rejected that possibility as well. He'd personally looked through every and all parts of London that were even incrementally likely to fit the area depicted in the rough map, and this was the _only_ match.

So _why was nobody here?_

There was only one possible explanation.

They'd known they were coming.

Numbers, names, statistics, departments. All of these ran through Sherlock's head in the space of a few seconds, trying to pinpoint the most likely source of the leaked operation information. It didn't help that Lestrade had notified every police squadron in London to block up all the possible exits from the tunnels - the people who knew of this raid spread far beyond Sherlock's personal knowledge. The informer could've been _anybody._

Anybody with enough information to know the exact time and date and location and particulars well in advance of the actual operation, that is. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his mental list cut down to a very few, very _select_ group of people.

One of which was stomping towards him right this second, a ticked off John in his wake.

"Now look here, Sherlock, I mobilized half the police in _London_ for this little scheme of yours and now I find that it's all been a _ruse? _Do you even _know-"_

Lestrade promptly shut up when Sherlock grabbed the gun from John's hand and clicked the safety off, resting the barrel on the detective inspector's suddenly clammy forehead.

There was a symphony of clicks that immediately followed as fifty other safeties were taken off, a cloud of guns now pointed directly at _him. _

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge them.

Lestrade licked his lips nervously, glancing up at the gun at his head. He was still. Very, very still. "What the hell? Sherlock-"

"The only explanation as to why the gang is not present at this location is that they have been forewarned of our appearance," Sherlock cut over him smoothly, voice icy as he pressed the barrel harder against the detective inspector's skin. His aim may not be on par with John's, but even _he_ couldn't miss at point-blank range. "Only a few people could've been notified in time to warn the criminals of this raid beforehand, allowing them sufficient time to evacuate the premises. Now tell me. Why did you do it?"

"For God's sakes, Sherlock, I don't know what-"

"Tell me!" Sherlock barked, raising the gun and shooting a warning shot at the ceiling of the tunnel. Lestrade jumped. Rubble rained down, and the tension amongst the other officers at seeing their leader held at gunpoint by a man who was in no way hesitant to pull the trigger was so strong it was nearly tangible.

"I'm _telling_ you-"

"Don't lie."

"But I'm NOT-"

"Why did you do it?"

"I _didn't_-"

"TELL ME!"

"I DIDN'T FUCKING _DO IT_ ALREADY!"

Sherlock stared hard at Lestrade, who was slightly flushed and sweaty. The man's teeth were clenched, hands curled into fists, whole body nearly _trembling_ from the threat of the gun in his face. A mixture of anger, fear, and frustration colored his eyes, a hard defensiveness in his stance.

But his gaze remained steady, his pulse constant.

Sherlock's finger pressed down on cool metal.

_Click._

* * *

**Author's Note:** I TOLD YOU GUYS I WOULD ADD ANOTHER LITTLE SEGMENT THING IN THE NEXT 4-5 HOURS! SEE? AREN'T YOU GLAD I UPDATE SO OFTEN? lol jks. Although I do try to update every weekend... and i guess that's sorta working right now. So. This chapter. Yes. It is where things start. Bet you guys didn't think it'd be empty, huh? Sherlock, _wrong_ about something? Impossible. And I guess that last bit was kind of a cliffhanger there.. *smiles evilly*. Well, hope you guys liked this chapter (though I realize it's ridiculously short... I just _had_ to leave that cliffhanger in there) and see you all next week! Thanks so much to everybody who favorited / followed / reviewed so far! Freshly baked gooey chocolate chip cookies to you all~~~ :3


	11. This Flood

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. Never was, never will be *sobs*

**Warnings: **John being a BAMF

* * *

_This Flood_

* * *

Sherlock lowered the gun, safety clicked back on.

"Good," he said calmly, tossing the gun back to John, who caught it by the handle with ease. "Good."

The release in tension was like a large breath being simultaneously exhaled. Slowly, the majority of the guns being pointed at him were lowered, now that the immediate danger to their leading officer had been withdrawn. Sherlock rolled his eyes as John clapped a shaky Lestrade on the shoulder, muttering a few words of comfort and reassurance.

Lestrade just gave him a grimace, though he did return the gesture with a nod and a squeeze of the arm.

Before Sherlock could turn to examine the rest of the place, though - the gang may have had time to evacuate, but there was _always_ some evidence left behind - two explosions rocked the foundations of the tunnel, making yet more rubble rain down on their group. Sherlock spun around, eyes flickering madly over the surrounding area, searching for the cause. _Explosions. Attack. Perhaps the gang had waited in ambush for them?_

But _where?_

It was John who reacted first, out of all of them. His face was grim, determined - his soldier face.

"Everybody out!" he suddenly barked, no trace of his usually mild tone in the command. The people nearest him jumped in surprise. For the first time, Sherlock got an idea of how John - mild-mannered, kind, affable John - could've ever commanded his own troop of soldiers on the Afghanistan war front.

The officers sprang to obey before they could even think it through, the sheer authority in that voice brooking no arguments.

"Two lines in a row, out of the tunnels ASAP! Understood?" John yelled, hustling the line of officers into a tunnel in the opposite direction from where they'd come. The urgency in John's voice, added to the distant crashes of sections of the tunnel collapsing, made nobody even think about questioning the order. Although some officers _did_ look to Lestrade for confirmation that they should follow the words issued by this man wholly unconnected with Scotland Yard.

Lestrade just nodded, readily handing over command to John, who was definitely the more collected of the two at the moment.

"_Yes sir!"_ the officers responded as one, settling into a steady jog into the branching tunnel as per their orders.

But it wasn't fast enough.

"_March, _men! Double time!"

The jog increased to a run, and as soon as the last officer shuffled past John grabbed Sherlock's hand and dragged him along as well, bringing up the rear.

"John," Sherlock started, frowning and resisting the pull. "What-"

"Just trust me," John muttered, his voice still grim but without the harsh tone of command.

Well. If put that way...

Sherlock allowed himself to be dragged by the man into the tunnels, John running past the line of officers to the front of the column. Sherlock followed just a step behind, a mixture of curiosity and reluctance.

"John, what the hell is going on?" Lestrade asked as soon as John came up beside him at the front of the lineup.

"Perhaps the good doctor is starting to become as batty as his flatmate," came the snarky response from Anderson, two rows behind.

John ignored them both, turning instead to Sherlock. "Do you know the layout of the tunnels from here?" he asked, breathing completely even despite their quick pace. His gaze was steady, trusting - that curling warmth flared and licked greedily at the bottom of Sherlock's stomach, radiating through his limbs.

"Of course."

"Good," John nodded. "Then lead us in the quickest way out of these damned tunnels. The shorter the route the better."

Sherlock cocked his head, but it was Lestrade who asked the question he was thinking.

"For God's sakes, John," Lestrade sighed, exasperated. "Can't you just tell us _why?"_

John looked at the DI then, eyes hard and jaw set. "Do you hear that?" he asked calmly in response.

"John-" Lestrade began irritably, but John cut him off.

"_Listen."_

Sherlock frowned and listened, hard, and he could see Lestrade doing the same. There was the sound of their footsteps on the crumbly tunnel floor, the sound of yet more parts of the ancient maze collapsing far off. But under that there was a faint vibrating undercurrent, a sort of rushing, flowing, roaring… water?

"The river," Sherlock said flatly, his body suddenly going cold. How could he have _missed_ something so _obvious? "_They've redirected the river."

"They've _what?"_ Anderson yelled.

"The _Thames_," Sherlock snapped, having no patience for the dim-witted forensic scientist when all their lives could literally be seconds away from ending. "Those explosions. They've purposefully destroyed a part of the tunnel so the river would flow inside. As we are currently underground, the water will flood this whole space. I doubt I need to inform you of what'll happen after that."

"You're saying we're all gonna _drown to death?"_ Anderson screeched, his voice hitting an impressive few octaves at the end of that sentence. That caught quite a few of the officers' attention - and there were more than quite a few mumbles of panic that followed.

Not good. Sherlock knew enough about mob psychology to know that if one person broke down, general panic followed. And so did the crumbling of any semblance of order.

They'd never make it out if that happened.

"We are _not_ going to drown to death," John barked, loud enough that even the two officers at the very back of the row could hear him. There was immediate silence. John had the whole attention of the troupe now, all eyes fixed on him with a sort of desperate loyalty; every officer hoping John had the answers to get them out of this mess.

It was more than a little impressive how John had assumed command so quickly. Sherlock looked down at the man with the barest tinge of pride in his eyes.

"What we _are_ going to do," John continued, still in that loud voice that carried extremely well, "Is keep on running. Sherlock knows how to get us out of these tunnels as fast as possible. So as long as we keep it together and move _quickly,_ nobody is going to die. Not on _my_ watch. You hear me men?"

"_Yes sir."_

"Anderson?"

The forensic scientist looked like he was caught in between a nervous breakdown and sucking on a lemon, but he nodded reluctantly nonetheless. "Just as long as you get us out of this mess," he grumbled weakly.

John nodded sharply, turning to Sherlock. "We're all depending on you now," he said softly, dark blue eyes finally betraying a crack in John's ironclad self-control.

And when faced with such a show of unquestioning faith, Sherlock really had no choice in the matter but to close his eyes and retreat to his mind palace and _think._

_"Left,"_ he said abruptly, grabbing John's hand and jerking him into a branching side tunnel without warning. A hiss from John reminded Sherlock that he'd just yanked on John's left arm - his bad arm - so he loosened his grip a tiny bit. But not enough for John to be able to let go. The officers behind them scrambled for a second to follow the sudden change in direction, until they drew level again a few moments later, still in their double-column formation.

"Give a man a bit more warning next time will you?" Lestrade grumbled, out of breath.

"Right."

Another abrupt turn, but this time the officers were more prepared for it. Though Lestrade's grumbling didn't cease, and Anderson had started off a string of bitter mumblings under his breath.

Everybody ignored him.

Sherlock closed his eyes, going back to the map he'd only seen for the briefest instant back in that cab. He would have to rely completely on his memory now - there was no signal for his phone this deep underground.

"You alright?" John asked quietly, the warm hand in Sherlock's giving a gentle squeeze.

Sherlock squeezed back. "Thinking," he replied. That was all that was needed - John nodded and left him to himself, letting his mind go without needless distractions. If Sherlock stumbled a few times on the uneven ground because of his closed eyes, John always steadied him before he could fall.

"Left again."

They turned, and by now that rushing sound from earlier had gotten distinctly louder, making the walls of the tunnel around them visibly shake. Rubble was raining down in a constant shower from overhead, dust and debris covering their heads and shoulders.

_Crack._

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open as the hand in his suddenly _pulled,_ making him stagger back into a small, solid body. "Halt!" came the order an instant later, the officers nearly crashing into each other as John unexpectedly just _stopped._

And then, not a second later, the roof of the tunnel right in front of them _collapsed._

Sherlock stared at the wall of bricks and dirt that settled in a cloud of dust, just barely a foot in front of him. His mind (un)helpfully supplied the exact state his own body would be in if John hadn't stopped him just in time…

The picture wasn't exactly appealing, even to the consulting detective who had seen more than the common number of dead bodies around.

But the cave-in provided a more serious obstacle in their course other than Sherlock's narrowly avoided fate of being crushed to death.

They couldn't get through.

And all the while the water was coming - they could _hear_ it coming - and the air had taken on the distinctly wet, misty quality of the Thames.

"We're _trapped!"_ Anderson yelled into the shocked silence that followed, finally losing it. "We're trapped and it's all _his_ fault," he spat venomously in Sherlock's direction. "_He_ was the one who told us the gang was supposed to be here! _He_ was the one who led us in this direction! Now we're all going to die in this goddamned abandoned tunnel and it's all because of _him!"_

As if to further enforce his statement, a light sheet of water flowed over the ground underneath them, silent and unstoppable. It was hardly half an inch deep, just barely reaching above the soles of their shoes, but for a single second everybody froze.

And then the screaming began.

"_We're all gonna die we're all gonna die we're all gonna die."_

It was embarrassing to see how fast Scotland Yard's finest crumbled into a bunch of bigoted morons no better than infants. People were jumping, trying to get out of the water licking against their shoes, splashing each other, breaking ranks. There was screaming, shouting, spittle and tears. It escalated almost to the point of violence, some scrabbling against the cave-in and trying to dig their way to the other side.

It was chaos.

"Men!" Lestrade shouted, trying in vain to restore order. But nobody was inclined to listen to him now - not when their own lives were threatened. When they were all _trapped_ with no way out in the face of certain death. "Calm down! Listen to me!"

Nothing worked. They were all going to die. Sherlock quickly estimated the probability of survival if he grabbed John _now_ and ran back to find an alternate route. He didn't care if the police lived or not. As long as he and John were okay. Only John. Always John.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

A light in the darkness, a path to reason. All eyes turned to the sound - to _John_ - in shocked silence.

And the man had never before looked so dangerous.

Dark blue eyes that were nearly black with barely restrained rage glared at the officers filling the tunnel, hand clenched on the gun that he'd fired into the ceiling. Three empty shells clinked as they fell to the ground, a little wet _plop _as they hit the water. John seemed larger in that moment, an earthquake to rival the power of Sherlock's hurricane. Solid, strong, inexorable.

He was John Watson, member of the RAMC and Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

"_Order,"_ John said quietly, and that soft voice was enough to triumph over a thousand shouts. The men shuffled back to their original double row formation, their screams and protests silenced. They waited, tensely, for him to speak.

John strode down the side of the column of lined officers, hands pressed behind his back, gun still held at ready in his hand and making no indication that he even _noticed_ the water that was splashing with each footstep he made. He met each of the officers' eyes, waiting until they looked away.

"New Scotland Yard," John stated, still in that same quiet, powerful voice. Sherlock felt a shiver crawl down his spine as he watched John dominate the scene, a force to be reckoned with. "Men, you should be _ashamed_ of yourselves. A trickle of water and all of you turn into squealing _babies?_ I have never been so disappointed in my fellow officers. You are all here to uphold the law, to be ready to lay down your life in the name of justice. But after what I've just witnessed, do any of you still have the _gall_ to call yourselves by the prestigious name of _New Scotland Yard?"_

There was a collective flinch at John's words, spoken with unassuming nonchalance but nevertheless hitting home with cutting precision. Sherlock felt his lips twitch up with pride - John always called him brilliant or amazing, but Sherlock was only just realizing that maybe John was the one who actually deserved such praise.

The water was still steadily rising, nearly to their ankles by now, but nobody mentioned a thing.

"Now, I want each and every one of you to shut up and do as you're told. Understood?" John said, almost in a whisper. None of the officers moved - there was't even a _shuffle. _"We are _not_ going to die. That I promise you. But if anybody wishes for the coward's way out in the face of danger, don't hesitate to step forwards." John pulled the gun out from behind his back, loading the chamber with a resonating _click._ "I'd be more than happy to send you off myself."

Silence. Not even a twitch disturbed the absolute stillness that followed such a proclamation. John waited for a beat, then smiled, clicking the safety back on his gun and strapping it back into his belt.

"Good," he said simply, turning to the front of the lineup. "Sherlock, Lestrade. I want you up here with me. And Anderson?"

"What?" came the whinged reply.

"If you open that bloody mouth of yours one more time, I'll shoot you in the balls."

Anderson choked, but didn't dare to speak another word. John nodded in satisfaction and smiled slightly as Sherlock came up to him, Lestrade slightly behind.

"Tell me you can get us out of here."

"Just trust me," Sherlock said, echoing John's words from earlier. They set off at a run, the water slapping against their feet and drenching their shoes.

_Right. Left. And then take the third branch instead of the first. _

They retraced their steps, moving as quickly as they could. The water level was rising faster now, nearly up to their knees and slowing down their progress. Their sodden clothes dragged them down, making each step harder, heavier. Yet there wasn't a single complaint. They trudged onwards with grim determination, refusing to stop.

The water was up to their thighs.

_Straight. Then another left. This way is longer than the first route, but that one was blocked by the cave-in. This one's the only route left. If this one's blocked as well, we will definitely drown. _

Sherlock's brain churned at a million miles an hour, eyes flickering madly over the tunnel walls and ceiling, searching for the telltale cracks that warned of an oncoming cave-in. There was none. Their route was clear. He had to jump to take each step, fighting against the force of the tide, refusing to be swept off his feet. The officers were all panting now, some using their hands to paddle themselves further in the coursing water.

Up to their waist.

_There's still nearly a mile of tunnel to go before we're clear. We aren't going to make it. Calculating the rate of water level rise and the current speed we are progressing, we're going to make it only three-quarters of the way before we are entirely submerged. _

Sherlock blinked as his mind provided him the answer, drawn from all available facts. For the first time in his life, he refused to believe his own deduction.

_We are all going to drown._

"John," he said quietly, quiet enough that not even Lestrade, who was right behind him, would hear. John looked up at him.

"John, I-"

What could he say? Even in the face of certain death, he had no idea how to put this sentiment, this _feeling,_ into words. As John had told him before, Sherlock only knew facts, while John was the one who knew _people._ John was the one who was supposed to be good at this, not _Sherlock. _

"I just want you to know-"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock swallowed and stopped his stupid stuttering, looking down at his John. The man smiled gently, taking his hand.

"It's fine."

John didn't know. Didn't know the statistics and calculations and probabilities that Sherlock had already checked and re-checked, didn't know that they were going to die. He could only say that because he didn't _know,_ didn't know as Sherlock did, that the probability of their survival had already reached single digits. And even then it was decreasing with each passing second, with every inch the water rose.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered, clenching John's hand in his so hard his bones creaked. "Yes, John. It's _all_ fine."

Both of them knew he was lying. Neither of them said it out loud.

The water was up to their chests.

"Push, men!" John yelled, his voice carrying despite the sounds of the water that echoed in the tunnel. "Use your arms to propel yourselves! We're nearly there!"

At his words, at the sound of his _voice,_ it was like a new vigor had been restored. Efforts were renewed, lagging limbs regaining their fervor. This was the human will, the incredible propensity of their race for survival.

And they were _almost_ _there._

Up to their necks. Most people were swimming now, no longer able to walk efficiently on the tunnel base. Some of the shorter officers had no choice _but_ to swim - they couldn't reach the bottom even if they tried. Sherlock's coat dragged him down, his steps lagging as his feet scrabbled for purchase, the water swallowing the ground. He was shivering, the water icy cold.

"John," he hissed, the man beside him swimming with strong, smooth strokes.

"Hmm?"

Sherlock bit his lip, eyes flickering back at the officers. The water level was still rising, his feet could barely touch the ground now. He hadn't wanted to admit this, he _hated_ admitting any sort of weakness, but he couldn't see any way he could get out of this otherwise.

"_JohnIcan'tswim_," he said quickly, one hand on the tunnel wall so he could _drag_ himself forwards when his feet no longer touched the base. The water level was nearly at the top of the tunnel now - just barely a foot of space between their floating heads and the tunnel ceiling. When the water reached the top, they wouldn't be able to breathe.

"What?"

Sherlock forced himself to calm down. He was overreacting. If he would only logically examine the situation, he'd be able to figure something out. "John," he said slowly, distinctly. "I cannot swim."

"_What?"_

Sherlock frowned at the other man, annoyed. He'd said it loud and clear. "I cannot-"

"I heard you," was the curt reply. "Why didn't you tell me _earlier?"_

"It wasn't relevant at the time."

"Oh, so when the water was rising up to our necks with no signs of stopping, you didn't think the fact that you couldn't swim was _relevant?"_

"John-"

But Sherlock's defense was cut off when the rushing sound of water, which had been a continuous rumble in the background, suddenly increased in volume. They could hear it clearly now, water sloshing against the tunnel walls. It was getting louder, nearer - the flood was slowly rising up, building for the final wave.

They weren't going to make it.

"Hold on, the big one's coming!" John yelled back to the officers, who had mostly broken rank by now and were each swimming along as fast as they could. "Prepare for it and don't fight it! Let the water push you forwards. We'll make it, people. We'll _make it."_

Sherlock felt one of John's arms wrap around his torso, underneath his coat. "Relax," John whispered to him, managing to swim both of them forwards using only one arm. Sherlock could see a wince as John was forced to put extra pressure on his wounded shoulder, making it bear the burden of both their weights. "Don't stiffen up. I've got you. Just trust me."

And Sherlock did. More than he'd expected, more than he'd thought possible. Sherlock trusted John.

"Take a deep breath."

The water came.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'M SO SORRY PEOPLE I DIDN'T UPDATE LAST WEEKEND! THE PAST WEEK WAS JUST TOTALLY CRAZY. Had like three tests, plus it was Halloween and I had to do shit with my family. So yeah, here's a long(ish) chapter for you guys :D Think of it as my peace offering for not updating at all the previous week. Next update tomorrow, so keep reading! Thanks to everybody that reviewed! I seriously love reading them... they make me feel warm and fuzzy inside...

And I was actually shocked to hear how many people hated Jane. Like, wow. Thanks for getting so interested in my OC ~~~


	12. You're Welcome

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. What else do I need to say?

* * *

_You're Welcome_

* * *

Noise. Kicking. Dark shadows moving beside them in the water, the force of the wave pushing them forwards, letting them ride it to the exit. Bubbles, debris. Confusion. Collision, rocks, pain. Sherlock lost his sense of direction, didn't know which way was forward or back, up or down. He lost his sense of time, only able to estimate how long they'd been underwater by the steady burning in his lungs.

But all the while he could feel the strength of the arm around him, could grab onto John's jacket as the man slowly but surely paddled them to safety. It lasted an instant, an eternity - and then they were surfacing, Sherlock coughing out water and gasping in great breaths of air. Hands and feet scrabbled against hard grey pebbles, dragging himself away from the now completely submerged tunnel and towards the chilly London air.

They'd emerged somewhere on the opposite side of the river from where they'd first went in, next to an old abandoned tram station by the waterfront. Several bums glanced quickly at the suspicious people climbing out of the tramway, and with a silent surprise at the uniformed officers they quickly scurried away.

Just as Lestrade had promised, there was a team of Scotland Yard waiting at this tunnel entrance as well. Though Sherlock guessed they were more than a little stunned to find that it wasn't the reputed drug gangsters that emerged, but rather their own squad. The standby team started forwards but Lestrade, who had climbed out of the water shortly after Sherlock and John, held up a hand for them to keep away for now. "Report!" Lestrade called out over the milling individuals of his battered team. "Anyone missing?"

The team slowly regrouped, clustering around each other for warmth. They were all drenched, and the dropping temperature as the sun set overhead was not helping heat retention.

John - wet and panting and flushed - helped Sherlock up to his feet. "Alright?" he asked softly.

Sherlock nodded, unable to find the right words to speak. They were both wet and cold, and had just nearly _died_ not a minute ago. He'd be glad if somebody could tell him how he could _possibly_ think with any degree of effectiveness under this condition. Though he did briefly note that John was back to _his _John, the comfortable, smiling, gentle John that he shared a flat with. As exciting and impressive as John's soldier side had been, Sherlock decided he liked this John infinitely better.

Lestrade rushed up to them, hand on John's shoulder drawing his attention away from Sherlock. "John," Lestrade said grimly, panic in his eyes and completely oblivious to the murderous scowl Sherlock directed his way. "Bad news. We've got one missing."

John immediately stiffened, entire stance changing. "Who?"

"The new transfer. Caraway."

John and Sherlock met each other's eyes for the briefest moment, both of them thinking the same thing with completely different attitudes; John looked panicked, worried, Sherlock sneered. He'd known the woman would be trouble. That involving her would be a bad idea.

_Jane._

"I have to go," John said, shrugging off his sodden jacket and letting it drop unceremoniously onto the ground. Before he could move a step, Sherlock's hand was clamping down on his arm.

"No, you don't."

John turned, a flicker of fire in his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock. I do. Now let me go."

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, who was watching them both with wide eyes, clearly at a loss for what to do. "It's Scotland Yard's problem," he said to John. "Let them deal with it. Why should you risk your life for one of _their_ officers? Lestrade was the one in charge. Why doesn't _he_ go?"

The question, though spoken to John, was aimed at Lestrade. Sherlock fixed the DI with his full glower, trying to _intimidate_ the man into going himself instead of John.

And it was actually working, until John broke the silent face-off by shrugging off Sherlock's hand.

"I'm going, Sherlock," was the obstinate answer. "Lestrade can hardly keep himself afloat, he'd be more harm than help if he went." Lestrade flushed slightly and Sherlock scowled. How had John even been able to _see_ in all that confusion?

"Then one of the other officers can go. You have no responsibility to help." Sherlock grabbed John's hand, pulling, trying to make the other man stay. He knew he was grasping at straws now, but the dark tunnel entrance with the water lapping against the sides was an ominous danger - one that he refused to let his only friend walk right into.

John's expression softened. "I _do_ have the responsibility to help," he argued quietly, gently disentangling his hand from Sherlock's. "She is my friend, and I don't want her to die."

"Why would you _do_ that?" Sherlock demanded, not understanding, wanting to grab John and refuse to let him go. "Why would you go so far for a woman you only met _five days ago?_ You can't possibly be in love with her so quickly, and there is no way she could've managed to gain your loyalty that fast-"

John smiled sadly. "Try to look beyond the facts, Sherlock," he urged. "She's my friend, and therefore I want to help her. Even at the risk of my own life."

"But _why-"_

"I would do the same for you too, you know."

Sherlock's arm fell back to his sides, and he watched with a sort of uncomprehending disbelief as John turned his back on him and ran quickly to the tunnel entrance, diving into the black water with a neat, perfected move. Leaving Sherlock alone, standing in the cold with the helpless frustration of being able to do nothing but _wait._

Sherlock picked John's jacket up off the ground and dusted off the pebbles that clung to it. It was John's favorite jacket, and Sherlock thought John would be rather unhappy if it was ruined. He folded it neatly over his arm and glowered at Lestrade, who was fidgeting uncomfortably at his side.

"If he dies, I _will_ kill you," Sherlock said seriously, not a hint of humor in his expression.

Lestrade gulped, running a shaky hand through his hair. "If he dies, I might even let you," was the guilty answer.

* * *

John held his breath.

He moved through the black water with swift, efficient strokes, swimming much faster now that he didn't have a full grown man latched onto him. John kept his eyes open underwater, feeling them tear up in irritation against the dust-filled liquid but having no other choice. He had to find Jane. He _had _to.

He just hoped he wasn't too late.

His body was numb. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore, but he could still move his hands. That was good. It meant he wasn't getting severe frostbite, which meant he didn't have to amputate his extremities. But he knew he couldn't spend much longer in this water - it had to be close to freezing, and he stood a real chance of getting hypothermia if he didn't find a way to warm himself up soon.

Sometimes, the doctor side of him thought too much.

A dark shadow off to the side caught his attention, and he knew it was Jane. Partly because there were no other possible explanation for anything else being in the water, but mostly because it was _moving._ Sluggishly and erratically, but still moving.

She was still alive. A wave of relief crashed over him.

John swam towards her, wrapping his arms around her slim body. She fought him at first, tried to push away. She even managed to direct a well-aimed kick at his stomach, which nearly forced the air out of his lungs. But he got her to calm down with a squeeze on the hand and slowly pulled her face to his, pressing their mouths together.

Edging out a tongue, he pried open her lips and _breathed. _

Some of the air escaped as bubbles around their faces, but John made sure some got through. He felt Jane's chest expand under his hold, the air inflating her lungs. His own air supply was nearly depleted - he'd given her more than three quarters of what air he'd had left. They had to get out of there. Jane wouldn't be able to go on for long - carbon dioxide did nothing but temporarily hold off the effects of asphyxiation. John guessed he had approximately a minute left before his own air supply ran out.

Wrapping one arm around her, much like he'd done with Sherlock, John swam them back to the exit of the tunnel. Only this time it was easier, Jane's smaller body and lighter weight making their progress quicker than he'd expected. Not to mention the fact that Jane, unlike Sherlock, wasn't wearing a bloody huge coat that was absolutely _heavy_ when waterlogged.

They were nearly there, he could see the faint light from the sunset glimmering through the water ahead. Jane had stopped moving against him some time ago, lax in his grip. He clenched his teeth and pushed onwards, knowing he wouldn't be able to do anything more to help her until they were out of this water, in the air, with fresh, _breathable_ oxygen entering their lungs…

So John did the only thing he could. He swam, keeping his grip around his charge as tight as he could. He was a soldier. He was a doctor. And saving lives was what he'd been trained to do.

John held his breath.

* * *

Sherlock paced.

He'd accepted one of the ghastly orange blankets the reserve squad had begun handing out to the sodden officers once his own shivering had become unbearable, though he refused to take off his coat. John's jacket was still clutched in his hands, water dripping from the sleeves. He was beginning to tread a track in the pebbly sand, a straight line right in front of the tunnel entrance.

_Stupid John. Idiot. Why hadn't he _listened?

He had to admit he was worried. It had been nearly five minutes now and nobody had come back up. Five _minutes._ John was taking too long.

When John's blond head finally broke the surface of the black water, Sherlock was the first to get to his side. And then he saw the other blond head that followed, the woman limp and floppy in John's hold. The two of them staggered out of the water - well, John staggered out while carrying the woman - and fell onto the pebbles. John was breathing hard, gasping, while the woman was unmoving.

Dead.

"Get me a blanket," John shouted hoarsely, leaning down and checking the woman's pulse, her breathing. Nothing. He pressed both hands together and pumped on her chest, pushing down in the center at a rate of approximately twice a second. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation. CPR.

Still nothing.

John tilted the woman's head back and lifted her chin, pinching her nose and breathing into her mouth. Sherlock watched with a stab of that dark feeling again when John's lips connected with hers, even though he knew perfectly well that John wasn't attempting anything sexual by the act. But John's eyes were full of worry and his attention focused only on _her. _Sherlock was standing hardly three feet away and John hadn't so much as _noticed_ him.

It was like he was invisible.

John alternated between chest compressions and breathing, not giving up until finally, _finally,_ the woman coughed, a small, weak sound, water dribbling out of her mouth. John sat her up then, pounding her on the back until she got all the water out of her lungs, wrapping her snugly in the blanket somebody passed to him. She looked up, pale and shivering with a mixture of vomit and saliva and water dribbling down her chin.

"John," she whispered weakly, bursting into tears.

"Shh, it's okay now," John said softly, wrapping his arms around her and drawing the blanket tighter around her shoulders. She clung to him, trembling. "It's okay. You're safe. It's all going to be okay."

Sherlock couldn't stand to watch any longer. Scowling, he stalked away from the crime scene, leaving John behind to do whatever he wanted. John didn't need _him,_ after all. _He_ was unnecessary. John was perfectly happy with that woman and Lestrade and all those other officers that passed him blankets and made him go on rescue missions and risked _his_ life for _their_ benefit.

Sherlock clutched John's sodden jacket tighter in his hands. No matter how angry he got, he just couldn't seem to be able to leave it behind.

* * *

Sherlock was curled up in his armchair when John stumbled in through the door of their flat an hour later, one of those disgusting orange blankets wrapped around his shoulders. "Sherlock," John sighed as he closed the door, leaning against the wood. "There you are. I was worried you'd gone off somewhere by yourself again."

"I'm perfectly able to take care of myself," he replied curtly, watching John over steepled fingers. He'd taken a hot shower - a _very_ hot shower - and changed into another of his impeccable suits. The one he'd been wearing had been ruined beyond repair, as well as his shoes. His coat, however, he was pleased to note, was still in fairly good condition once he'd hung it over a bonfire and dried it out a bit.

"Yes, I'm sure of that," John snorted, tiredly toeing off his shoes in the entranceway, squelching on wet socks to the bathroom. "I hope you didn't use all the hot water. It's _freezing."_

He didn't respond. John headed into their shared bathroom and closed the door behind him, gently, in the polite English way. Three seconds later, he flung it back open.

So he'd found the bonfire.

"_Sherlock_." It wasn't particularly threatening, but there was _definitely_ an edge. Sherlock didn't think hearing that warning tone should've made him shiver. Was the thermostat in the flat malfunctioning?

"I had to dry my coat," he replied. It was a perfectly reasonable motive.

"With a _bonfire?"_

"The heater's output was insufficient to be able to dry it in any reasonable amount of time."

"In the _bathroom?"_

"It was the only tiled area in the flat that wouldn't catch fire. That, and the kitchen. Except I have some heat-sensitive experiments ongoing over there so I couldn't very well risk damaging the results." Sherlock uncurled himself and cocked his head. "I dried yours too, in case you were wondering."

"Do you have any _idea_- wait what?"

Sherlock nodded to the coat rack, where his own coat and John's were hanging together nice and dry, though a bit worse for wear. "I dried your coat as well."

"You _took_ my _coat_?" John asked incredulously. "I was wondering where it'd gone. So you were the one who stole it."

Sherlock pouted at the tone and walked over the coffee table to curl up on the sofa. His armchair was nice and soft, but the sofa was much better for a pouting curl. He turned his back to the rest of the room, pointedly ignoring John. He'd been _trying_ to be considerate, something John had suggested he should do. How was _he_ supposed to know John didn't want him to take the jacket?

And he hadn't _stolen_ it. He'd taken it with the full intention of giving it back.

He listened to the sound of John's responding sigh, and then the bathroom door close as he went back in. There was the rustle of a plastic garbage bag as John cleaned up the remnants of his rather messy, sooty bonfire, and then the shower running. Sherlock couldn't suppress the grin at the astonished yelp from the bathroom when the water started, boiling hot. He'd made sure there was still _plenty_ of hot water left for John when he came back.

And then there came the sound of John toweling himself dry, the creak of stairs as he went up to his bedroom to change. After a few moments of silence there was another creak of stairs, and then a hand on his shoulder, warm and gentle.

"Thank you, Sherlock." The voice was soft, honest.

He ignored him. John had done plenty well ignoring _him_ back at the crime scene, so Sherlock was just returning the favor. And no, he wasn't being _petty._

Well, maybe a little bit.

"I really appreciate the gesture. I'm glad you picked it up before somebody else did - it'd have been a shame to lose that coat."

No. He was still ignoring John. But that hand on his shoulder really was quite warm, and hand't John thanked him already about the jacket?

John sighed at his continued unresponsiveness, and Sherlock could feel the rustle of breath against the back of his neck. He shivered again, despite the toasty temperature in the flat, hoping John wouldn't be able to feel it through the hand that rested on his shoulder. He frowned when John moved away, but the sound of clattering in the kitchen soon after told him where he'd gone.

"Tea for me too," he called absentmindedly.

He heard John snort, and belatedly realized he was supposed to be ignoring the man.

_Damn._

The teacup clinked as John set it on the coffee table in front of the couch, and there was a sigh of satisfaction as John sank back into his armchair. Sherlock turned around from his curled up position - since he'd accidentally stopped ignoring John anyway - and took a sip of the hot liquid, relishing the sugar on his tongue. It slid down his throat, the double jolt of caffeine and sugar pure bliss after his impromptu swim.

"Still don't understand how you can drink that stuff," he heard John mutter. He arched an eyebrow, looking at the now pajama-and-bathrobe clad John over the edge of his teacup. "It's more sugar than tea."

"The sugar is actually the solute in the mixture of tea and water," he corrected, more on instinct than actual insistence that John got it right. He, on his part, couldn't understand how John could take his tea with no sugar and only a bit of milk.

John just rolled his eyes, sipping at his own mug.

They slipped into a mutual silence, neither wishing to break the companionable atmosphere with unnecessary words. The sun had set by now, one edge of the skyline from their window tinged a faint orange-pink, the other side a deep velvet with the first few pinpricks of stars. Sherlock stared at John, watching how the fading light drew new shadows over the man's face. It was incredible how he could watch that face forever, and yet still never be bored. John happy, John angry, John deadly, John sad. A myriad of emotions, of _expressions_, that Sherlock thought he might possibly be happy spending an entire lifetime studying.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He didn't even know what he was going to say until he heard it coming out of his own mouth.

"What you did back there, in the tunnels," he started, blinking quickly and refocusing his eyes on the teacup held in his long thin fingers. "That was, um-" _Incredible? Foolish? Idiotically noble? _"-good." He winced at himself, not looking up.

"What?" Sherlock could nearly _hear_ John's raised eyebrows by his tone alone.

"When I told you-" he huffed and jumped up from the couch, setting his tea down and walking to the window. His fingers itched for his violin, but it was currently in his bedroom on top of his bedside lamp. He might not be good with all this _sentimental _stuff, but he owed John this, at least.

"When I told you that I couldn't swim," he forced out. "When you, ah, did what you did. The probability of my survival had you not intervened was dismal, to say the least. Based on my analysis of my own capabilities I would not have been able to withstand total submersion in the river for long enough to be able to let the current push me to the exit."

A beat of stunned silence. Then, "Sherlock, are you _thanking me_ for saving your life?"

Sherlock frowned. He didn't think it was a common reaction to be so surprised when one received gratitude from another. When he saw people do it on the street, or when John forced him to watch some show on telly, there was usually a lot more smiling and hugging and various other dull social norms. There was never _incredulity._

But then again, this _was_ the first time Sherlock had ever attempted something like this. Perhaps the recipient's response altered depending on the specific source of gratitude.

"A simple 'thank you' would've done just fine, you know," John grumbled, in that familiar tone of amused exasperation. "Much easier to follow too, instead of a whole deduction on why you would've died otherwise."

Sherlock blinked and turned from gazing out the window, meeting John's eyes from across the room. _Oh, they're a light blue now. Must be because of the angle of the light. _John looked back evenly, holding his stare the way nobody outside his family had ever been able to do without discomfort. Sherlock swallowed, the unfamiliar words running over his mind, and then over his tongue.

"Thank you, John."

John blinked. Whatever the man had suspected Sherlock to say, it definitely hadn't been _that. _Because Sherlock Holmes didn't thank people. _Ever._

Sherlock frowned at the lack of visible response, besides the way John's grip tightened on his mug ever so slightly. Perhaps he'd done it wrong? He hated doing things wrong. But it wasn't like he'd had _cause _to thank anybody before. He'd always been alone, looking out for himself. Nobody cared about him and he cared about nobody else. That was how he'd lived.

Until John came.

Maybe he needed to be more specific.

"Thank you, John, for saving my life," he tried, and this one was met with a smile so tender it caused his entire brain to temporarily stutter to a halt. The next thing he realized was that John had stood up and was wrapping him in his arms, pressing them together in a way that was comforting and intimate and so very _very good._

So he'd been right. There _was_ hugging after the expression of gratitude.

Sherlock blinked. John's warmth was seeping into his skin through his clothes, from the arms wrapped around his shoulders. Warm, so very warm. Something inside him was thawing. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd been so physically close with somebody else. It had to have been _years; _he'd disliked physical contact since he was… six? Seven?

But this was different. This was _John._ Slowly, tentatively, Sherlock lifted his arms and placed them lightly on John's back, just enough so he could feel the other man's body in his arms. He ducked his head and rested it on John's shoulder, the scent of John's shampoo from his recent shower settling in a clean haze around his head. This was nice. This was good. And above all, this was _home._

John pulled away first, much too soon in Sherlock's opinion. But he was only leaning back to look him in the face, his hands still on Sherlock's shoulders. They were so _close_ - Sherlock's hands were still lightly gripping the back of John's bathrobe, their bodies still pressed together. And suddenly Sherlock had the overwhelming urge to just lean down and _kiss him already,_ for the third time that day.

"You're welcome, Sherlock," John said, snapping him out of his reverie. Sherlock's eyes blinked back to John's, seeing the soft little smile on the man's lips. Warmth coiled in his gut, his skin tingling from where he could feel John's body heat seeping through his clothes. When John finally stepped back, Sherlock couldn't help the little pang of disappointment at the loss of contact, his arms surprisingly cold without John pressed against them.

"You're welcome."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Here's the promised update! Although I'm not sure about this chapter... It was kinda iffy to me. Idk. Had to wrap up the flooding, but didn't really know how. Oh, and everybody. Is it just me, or are you guys the sweetest, most wonderful bunch of readers _ever? _I cannot tell you how happy I was to read all your reviews. I was literally grinning like an idiot the whole time. Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you. I love you all. Cookies and leftover halloween candy for everyone~~~~~~~~~!

And here're some people I would like to reply to about their comments:

Unionjackpillow: I LOVE BAMF!JOHN TOO! I NEVER UNDERSTAND WHY PEOPLE ALWAYS MAKE JOHN THE STUPID DIM-WITTED SIDEKICK. I mean, sure Sherlock's got the brains, but John was a bloody _soldier._ And he freaking _killed a guy_ within the first two days of knowing Sherlock Holmes. If that's not badass, I don't know what is.

LadyK1138: THANK YOU~~~~~~ omg you're so freaking nice it's gotta be illegal. 'Don't apologise for having a life' - that's gotta be the nicest thing anybody's said to me all week. (I know that makes my life sound super sad, but yeah. Had to say it.)

MisunderstoodSociopath: Besides the fact that I think your username is FUCKING AWESOME, I have to give you props for that last line. 'You have... 12 hours... Before... BOOM!'. That made my day.

phantombuggo: I honestly do not know where the 'Sherlock can't swim' part came from. I just can't imagine Sherlock Holmes ever actually swimming though... so I guess I figured that if I can't imagine it, he won't do it in my story. Besides, it made a nice excuse for John's BAMF-ness to come out. Plus that giant coat Sherlock wears all the time must be ridiculously hard to swim in... Anyways, I'm glad you liked it! Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!


	13. The Clue Part II

**Disclaimer:** I realize I'm starting to run out of interesting things to say here, since I'm basically repeating myself every single time. Oh well. Nothing's mine, hope you like it!

* * *

_The Clue Part II_

* * *

The next day dawned bright and early after the two inhabitants of 221B Baker Street got a night of some much-needed rest. Which essentially meant that John slept a solid nine hours while Sherlock dozed on the couch, occasionally straining out a few bars of Bach in the wee hours of the morning. All in all, it was as restful a night as Baker Street was ever going to get from the two flatmates.

It was a beautiful day, the sunshine promising unusually warm, clear weather for the first time in months. John was humming to himself as he cluttered around in the kitchen, fixing himself breakfast. Sherlock was draped over the couch, still in his silk bathrobe, his violin pressed against his chest and his fingers idly plucking every once in a while at the familiar tension in the strings. Neither of them mentioned the mess of notes and photographs that were taped over the mirror above the mantle, detailing all the information they had so far on the case.

John was just setting a plate of eggs and toast down on the table when loud, urgent banging disturbed the unusually tranquil scene. Sherlock met John's eyes from across the room at the sudden noise, both of them immediately breaking into matching grins.

_Finally._

Sherlock leapt up from the couch, lethargy forgotten as the door was flung open. Lestrade stood out of breath on the doorstep with a fussing Mrs. Hudson behind him, wild hair and the shadow of stubble indicating he'd been roused from his bed unusually early. John turned in his seat, breakfast abandoned.

"Sherlock," Lestrade panted, and it took Sherlock only a brief glance over Lestrade's rumpled uniform to gather the specifics. Messy hair - woken early. Tense shoulders - relative to the case. Urgent knocking - they've got a lead. A lead? They've caught the tunnel bomber.

"When?" he asked, already grabbing his jacket.

"The squad I placed at one of the alternate tunnel exits caught him late last night trying to escape. I was too busy with damage control from the flooding, so I only found out this morning." Lestrade took a few steps into the flat, looking like he was at the end of his rope. "He's a confirmed member of the drug gang - even had a few packets on him when we did a body search. We can't get anything out of him, though. I was hoping that-"

"I would get you some better results," Sherlock finished, swinging his coat over his shoulders. It was still in near-perfect condition, though the edges were a bit charred from his unconventional drying methods the previous day. Without even thinking about it, Sherlock grabbed John's jacket as well from the rack and tossed it to the other man.

John caught it midair, putting it on without so much as a pause. Sherlock smiled.

"I'll meet you at the station." Lestrade nodded briefly in acknowledgement, knowing Sherlock's aversion to be caught in a squad car. He turned on his heels and clattered back down the stairs, the wail of the siren starting up a few seconds later before it vanished down the street.

Sherlock's grin spread fully across his face as soon as Lestrade was gone. "Did you hear that, John?" he demanded, spinning around and grabbing the doctor, who was tucking his gun - which Sherlock had watched him clean and reload last night - discreetly into the waistband of his trousers. "We've got one of them! A confirmed member!" He shook John a little, his mind already going over the best methods of interrogation for different scenarios. Dashing out the door with a quick nod at Mrs. Hudson as he rushed by, Sherlock waved a cab down in seconds.

"Come _on,_ John," he shouted impatiently as John gave a proper 'good morning, how do you do, so sorry about all this' to Mrs. Hudson before hurrying after him down the stairs. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he ushered John into the cab before climbing in himself. Of course John wouldn't leave without properly greeting their landlady first, no matter the circumstance. It was just so _John. _

"Scotland Yard," Sherlock ordered the cabbie, feeling the excitement course through him. Everything was sharp; in focus. This was it - the lead they needed, especially after the dead end from the empty tramway. This was their breakthrough.

This was their _chance._

* * *

"Good God. _That's_ the member of the drug gang? _Him?"_

Lestrade nodded grimly at John's astonished horror. Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes. "The appearance doesn't matter, John," he said quietly, the three of them staring through the one-way mirror at the person handcuffed to the table in the room beyond. He was hardly more than a boy_,_ acne scars marring his skin with just the scattered beginnings of stubble. "Age is in no way a reliable indicator of criminal intentions."

John shook his head. "He's just a kid. Makes you wonder what was so bad that it drove him to drug trafficking."

Sherlock let his eyes slide down away from the boy beyond the glass until they were resting on the profile of his flatmate. John was looking at the boy with compassionate concern, along with a touch of worry.

"Empathy for criminals, though admirable, is in no way beneficial to the case," Sherlock reminded softly.

John sighed, looking down. "I know," he muttered, pursing his lips in discomfort. "Just don't be too harsh on him in there. God knows you can have him in tears within a minute."

Sherlock frowned, slightly affronted at John's opinion of him. "Oh I can do better than _that_," he sniffed. "I'd say the tears would start fifteen seconds in."

"_Sherlock_!"

He looked down at John again, saw the reproachful glare aimed his way. He rolled his eyes, shooting a grin down at his flatmate. "Fine," he relented. "I won't be 'too harsh on him', as you put it. If I'm unable to extract the information required, may you rest your mind at ease that at least the criminal was leniently treated."

John just snorted as the door to the interrogation room swung open, Donovan and Anderson stepping out. Donovan's curly hair was frazzled, Anderson's head looking like it was stuck even further up his arse than usual. Sherlock eyed them up and down, feeling his usual sneer twisting his lips and erasing the grin from a moment before.

"Right, then," Donovan said sarcastically, scowling at Sherlock with distaste. "The professionals have finished. If the _amateurs_ want to go in and have their turn, by all means." She swung her arm out in a parody of welcome.

Sherlock opened his mouth to deliver a sharp comeback - most likely something to do with the fact that both she and Anderson were clearly suffering from signs of sexual frustration, as the case was keeping them both working late hours with no spare time in between - but just as he opened his mouth John spoke up for him.

"Oh stuff it, Sally," John said loudly, drawing the surprised stare of Sherlock as well as the Yarders. "You wouldn't even _have_ this case if it wasn't for Sherlock. You might as well treat him with the respect he deserves."

Donovan blinked, opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Obviously, she wasn't used to quiet, polite John actually speaking up like that. Sherlock felt a warm glow of _something _tingle down his spineas he watched John defend him.

It was nice, he decided; having somebody stand up for you. Nobody had ever done that for him before. Nobody, that is, except John.

Not that Donovan's remarks _really _bothered him, of course. Not that he actually _needed_ to be defended.

Not at all.

"Oh great. Now the psychopath's sidekick's gotten knocked off his rocker too," Anderson muttered bitterly, glowering at them both as he took a large gulp from the coffee in his hand. "Knew something was up yesterday back in the tunnels. But hey, it was bound to happen, so can't say I'm too surprised."

Sherlock stiffened at the barb, jaw clenching almost imperceptibly. To any casual observer he wouldn't look any different, still sneering with his usual haughty demeanour. But John noticed. John always noticed. His face tightened as he fixed dangerous blue eyes on Anderson's face, warm fingers skimming lightly over Sherlock's knuckles in reassurance.

"Anderson?" John said sharply, voice hard.

"What?" Anderson grouchily mumbled into the bottom of his mug.

"It's high-functioning sociopath, get your diagnosis right. And if your memory continues to fail you, bear in mind that my offer to shoot you in the balls still stands."

Sherlock couldn't stop the startled bark of laughter that escaped him as Anderson was reduced to a wheezing, spluttering mess when his mouthful of coffee went down the wrong tube. Sherlock glanced down at John, who was looking far too smug than was proper when witnessing an acquaintance nearly choke to death on a mixture of caffein and his own spit.

"I do believe I'm becoming an influence on you, John Watson," he commented idly, unable to stop the fondness from leaking into his tone.

John looked up at him, eyes clear and bright with amusement. "Who says that's a bad thing?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at that, warmth radiating outwards through his body and tingling through his fingertips. Out of all the people he'd ever met, John Watson was the only one who could always, _always_ surprise him.

"Quite the contrary," he agreed lightly. "I see it as a definite advantage."

"If you two are done your little giggly time over there, we _do_ have a schedule to keep," Lestrade interrupted in obvious annoyance, scowling at them all in general. "Donovan, Anderson, go somewhere else if you're done with the questioning. I'm sure you two still have some paperwork concerning the raid last night that you haven't completed."

Donovan led Anderson away, still choking and coughing as he staggered down the hall. Sherlock watched them go, not bothering to hide his contempt when Donovan scowled at him over her shoulder. As soon as they turned a corner and were out of sight Sherlock whirled around, sweeping into the interrogation room with a dramatic swirl of his coat.

The door clanged shut behind him, Lestrade and John no doubt going to monitor him from the one-way mirror that ran along the length of the room.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as his gaze landed on the sullen youth shackled before him, pale and tense under the harsh fluorescents of the room. He pushed all extraneous thoughts from his head as he focused his mind, mental capacity working to the maximum as he let his brain take in all observable facts. The boy was anticipating interrogation, and thus would be harder to crack. People were always less likely to give information if they knew they were being questioned for it.

But then the boy fidgeted.

It was just a slight shift in his center of gravity, but it was enough. Sherlock had cracked tougher men and women on far less than that before. The fidget was a nervous tic; a display of doubt. Of weakness. And just like all weaknesses, it could be exploited.

A predatory smile graced his lips, blood thrumming through his body.

_The game was on._

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'M SORRY I DIDN'T POST LAST WEEKEND(again)! I found out on Friday that my dad had made super last minute plans for us to go to my brother's house, so I was (sadly) without computer and internet access for a full three days :'( Yeah. BUT. Here's a new chapter for you guys, and next update will be (hopefully) tomorrow, unless a zombie apocalypse occurs within the next twenty-four hours, at which time fanfiction updates by careless authors would be the least of all our worries. Or, at least, _my_ worries :D

Now, I should really be starting on the Mount Everest pile of homework I've been saving up... =_=


	14. Didn't You Know?

**Disclaimer:** What do you think? Do I _look_ like I own it?

* * *

_Didn't You Know?_

* * *

"You think he can do it?"

John raised an eyebrow at the question. He glanced at Lestrade, who was standing beside him and peering intently through the one-way mirror into the room beyond. Sherlock had taken the plastic chair across the boy with all the imperious self-importance of a born princeling, but now he was sitting utterly still, not saying a word as he stared at the boy over steepled fingers.

He supposed that it was just Sherlock's method of unnerving the boy while simultaneously deducing him to within an inch of his life. And judging by the evil smirk on Sherlock's face and the fact that the boy had developed a fidget, it was working.

John felt a moment of pity for the poor boy.

"Of course," he answered a moment later, surprised the detective inspector had even asked. "When has Sherlock ever _not_ been able to do it?"

"Donovan and Anderson have been going at it since six this morning. We've used every single interrogation method in the book and then some, but the boy hasn't uttered a peep."

"Well, Sherlock's methods are a bit more… _unorthodox_ than what you'd find in the common book," John said, grinning. "But you can't really blame him for it when they do the trick every time."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Oh I blame him alright. My boss is out to get me now after that fiasco at the gala, you know? I've been trying to explain to him that Sherlock's always acting like that, but it's not like it makes any damned difference."

"Oh right," John said, suddenly remembering the event - was it only just six days ago? It seemed longer than that. "Thanks for inviting us there, Greg. It was nice. Never did apologize for leaving without saying anything, though."

"Don't worry about it," Lestrade dismissed, waving John's words aside. "It was good you left when you did, actually. My boss was starting to entertain the thought of making up some pretext so he could arrest Sherlock for being rude. Not exactly the greatest end to the evening."

John winced, already imagining the outraged comments that would've ensued. "What luck we avoided it, then," he said dryly.

Lestrade laughed.

"Oh, and I've been meaning to tell you this, John," Lestrade said after a moment. "About yesterday, down in the tunnels. I'm impressed." Lestrade spoke quickly, keeping his eyes fixed on the unmoving form of Sherlock beyond the transparent barrier. "And grateful. You saved my men down there. You handled it much better than I would have."

"To be fair, Sherlock had just nearly shot you through the head at the time," John shrugged. "Anybody would've been a bit shaken up. I was just glad to help."

Lestrade just snorted at the nonchalant attitude, shaking his head and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like '_bloody incredible'._

Through the one-way mirror, Sherlock suddenly sprang to life, startling the poor boy. John watched Sherlock's mouth move, forming rapid-fire words that had the boy's face slowly morphing from obstinacy into jaw-dropped disbelief.

"Speaking of which, how's Jane?" he asked after a period of mutual staring at Sherlock's sudden antics, his thoughts going to the woman who'd become something of a friend. He'd left her the previous evening in the care of the emergency medical squad that arrived, but hadn't received any news of her since.

"Jane?" Lestrade repeated. "Oh, you mean Caraway, that new transfer. Yeah, she's fine. A bit shocked, but otherwise perfectly fine. She's back on duty this morning. Saw her filling out some reports for Head Inspector Lawrence just before I went to Baker Street."

John nodded, satisfied. Jane was okay. "Good," he muttered, more to himself than to Lestrade. "That's good."

Lestrade looked at him.

John raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Good? Is that all?"

John blinked, unsure what Lestrade meant. "What else could there be?"

Lestrade was staring in earnest now, brows furrowed. "Aren't you and Jane…?"

"We went out a couple of times," John admitted, nodding. Did _everybody_ keep track of his relationships now? God, it'd been embarrassing enough when it was just Sherlock. "Met her at the gala and we got on pretty well. I was actually thinking of asking her out again this coming weekend for dinner or something."

"And Sherlock's alright with that?" Lestrade asked, with an air of forced nonchalance that had John raising an eyebrow.

"Of course. Why wouldn't he be?"

Lestrade bit his lip, as if choosing his words carefully. "Doesn't he feel… I don't know, _unhappy_ about you going out with other people? Not that it's any of my business," he added hastily.

John rolled his eyes. "I don't see why it matters whether he's happy or not. He's always scaring away anybody that so much as comes near me, anyways. It's like he's _intentionally_ trying to sabotage all my relationships."

Lestrade gaped. "Sabotage your relationships…? Wait, John, don't tell me you don't know-"

"Know what?"

"My God, John, you _don't-"_

John frowned, not exactly liking the feeling of being completely clueless to what seemed to be common knowledge by now. "What is it, Greg?"

"You don't know - wait, but how can you _not_ know? Everybody can see it plain as day-"

John felt like he was missing something here. Something important. "What are you talking about?"

"Though I suppose he hides it from you… yes, that makes sense," Lestrade nodded to himself, mumbling under his breath. "But he's so focused on hiding it from you that he forgets to hide it from everybody else. The way he looks at you, the way he acts around you - God, he pretends that it's all just _normal_. He never lets you see any of it. _That's_ why you're the only one who doesn't know-"

"Greg, _what is it?"_ John asked, allowing just a hint of exasperation to enter his voice. He had no idea where this was going but he was smart enough to realize that it was something important.

And if that wasn't enough, it was something important that concerned both him _and_ Sherlock.

John just hoped Sherlock wasn't hiding a collection of body parts or something somewhere in the flat without his knowledge. Or something else that was just as bad.

Lestrade stopped his rambling as if a flip had been switched, gaze sharpening on John's annoyed blue glare. Lestrade opened his mouth and spoke slowly, as if unsure if it was the right thing to do.

"John," Lestrade hesitated, "didn't you know that Sherlock Holmes is in love with you?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well... here's the promised update. Sorry to those people who wanted to see the interrogation, but, well, I couldn't find any opening other than this where Lestrade would have John alone. And some people asked to see what John's feelings regarding Sherlock were, so this seemed like the most expedient way to do it. In short, that was my mental reasoning behind this chapter. Yes, it is short, and yes, it ends on a (slightly) important bit, but I thought it was a good place to cut it off.

But... I don't know. Just think of the last chapter and this chapter as a sort of segue into the next more action-y bit yeah? Because more action-y bits are coming (in case you lot are getting bored with all these chapters that don't contain anything but random bits of _sentiment _;P)


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